Wars of our Fathers
by exorcisingemily
Summary: The adventures of the Eleventh Doctor and Jenny, reunited between the 5th and 6th series. Fun, snark, personal conflict, action, adventure, war, domestics, comedy, tragedy, and family-the Doctor's Daughter joins her father and the Ponds on the TARDIS.
1. Prologue

The smoke hung thick on the air, black and smothering and dense enough to block all vision. From the moment the Doctor flung open the door it threatened to roil in, to blot out the world and suffocate them all, the smell of it enough to set Rory to coughing and waving his hands uselessly as he recoiled back into the TARDIS, dragging Amy with him.

This was wrong. This was so very wrong. The whir of the sonic screwdriver reinforcing the atmospheric shell against the smoke did nothing to block out the sounds of battle outside. He heard explosions-bad enough-but over that he could pick out two sounds that sent a chill through him, sent him scrambling back to the controls, his voice raised enough to be heard over the din, his command unusually abrupt, without a hint of his eccentricities.

"Close the doors! Now! Get inside, get away from the door, get back-we're leaving!"

Outside, the distinctive sound of beam disrupters lit the roiling clouds of smoke sickly blue. And he could hear their voices, mechanical and mad and single minded and familiar. . .

_Exterminate!_

"Close it!" He was stabbing at controls, flicking switches, pulling toggles. He had no idea what he'd landed in the middle of or why the TARDIS had brought him there, but he had no intention of staying. He didn't know the terrain. Didn't know where or when or why. He simply knew they were there and he didn't want to be. Not with the Ponds. Not on their extended honeymoon.

There were more sounds, now. The slap of boots on concrete, of coughing and running, and a very human, hoarse cry to wait.

She slid in like a runner taking home base, barreling past both Ponds feet first on the slick glass of the flooring, the squeak of rubber boot soles and leather and the drag of her palms against the floor as she flipped herself onto her stomach to look out of the door between the staring couple as they dematerialized from the scene of the battle.

The doors swung closed, and as they entered into the safety of the vortex she went boneless, the tension that sang through her muscles and urged her to run and keep running drained away. It was Amelia who spoke first, slapping Rory's arm as he stared at the slender blonde who had apparently decided that she was perfectly content to lay on the floor and catch her breath, cheek pressed to the cool glass and eyes closed.

"Oi! So who're you, then?" Amy's Scots brogue was pronounced, surprise and irritation coloring her words, hands planting on her hips as she looked from the girl on the floor to the uncharacteristically gobsmacked Doctor standing slack jawed. He visibly shook himself out of his stupor, coming around the consol to crouch, all knees and elbows, at arms length from the stranger.

"This, this is Jenny. My. . . daughter."

Without lifting herself from the floor the blonde raised a hand, fingers waggling in a wave in their direction, eyes still closed as her lips parted in a lunatic grin that had clearly passed on with his genetics.

"Hello!"

He knew his companion well enough to know the stunned silence wouldn't last long.


	2. Chapter 1

The ground was coming up much too fast. Granted, she'd only had this ship for a week and she was by no means an expert in flying it, but she was getting the distinct feeling that she wasn't going to be giving this particular borrowed vessel back, either. In fact, she was relatively certain she was crashing again.

It was exhilarating.

Feet braced, she threw her entire body into pulling up on the wheel, straining against the press of force and the stubborn controls as she worked to level out the nose of the ship, and she wasn't surprised to hear herself whooping in excitement all the while. Adrenaline had that effect on her, she'd found quickly, and crashing wasn't much different than running, really, if you thought about it. Might as well enjoy it while it was happening.

Slowly, the ship began to level out, but the velocity was still dangerous. She was elated to find out that even crashing and flying and straining with all of her might she could still calculate the exact point and time of impact based on trajectory, velocity, altitude and pitch on the console—multitasker, that was her! In her mind, she began counting down, only removing her hands from the wheel at the very end to tighten the webbing that held her into the cradle of the pilot's seat.

The nose of the ship cut a furrow in the earth two miles long, with a groan of tortured metal and the rather disturbing pops and squeals and crunches as pieces of the ship went by the wayside. Definitely not returning this one—but it was a smuggling ship, so she didn't feel too terribly badly about it. And for about forty five seconds, she didn't feel much of anything at all, as her body wrenched against the harness and her nose smashed against the suddenly loosened wheel.

Ow. And, in fact. . . ow.

She'd been crashing, but there was something else, something important that she was missing, as she fumbled with suddenly useless fingers, blinking away the bits of blood that her tender nose had flung up her face with the impact, she struggled to remember what it was that she was forgetting.

"_Anomaly located. Exterminate!"_

Oh. That.

Popping the harness, she struggled against the unusual angle of the floor, half-climbing her way to the back to grab one of the rucksacks the smugglers had webbed into the walls, and threw it over her shoulder. She liked having supplies, and with ships like this it was always a surprise what she could use, like finding a toy in the middle of a box of Fruity Crunchy Oats.

She really rather liked fruity sugary breakfast cereals. The boxes packed so neatly, and it was easy to eat by the handful.

She could have been out of the ship faster, but it would mean leaving behind supplies that might save her life. She settled on only beating the robot creatures by a hair—it made the running even better if she had to dodge, and she was very good at both. She'd also crashed herself by an abandoned outpost, so she could add hiding to her repertoire.

Flattening herself against an inside wall, she stretched her hearing out towards the ship, listening for the creatures as they approached from the air. She heard them stop by the ship and poked her head around the edge of the bay door to watch them as one extended what looked for all intents and purposes like a common bathroom plunger into the cockpit of her ride.

"_Genetic material located. Beginning extraction and analysis. Subject identified as The Doctor, 96.25% probability."_

She didn't stay to hear the commentary about Time Lord trickery. They weren't going to linger long. Daddy Dearest had that effect on his enemies, she was finding. Particularly these candycolored-robot-trashcan-plumber-shooty ones. Interactions with them never went well. It was time for the running, again.

She was tearing down corridors long since abandoned, blessing the maze-like interior for making it more complicated. They weren't exactly the fastest in a pursuit, but so far they were the scariest enemies she'd picked up on her tail. Shooting her out of the sky was the closest she'd let them since The Incident. She knew better than to pull her punches, now—she'd seen their gunsticks light up a victim in negative light, leaving them a pile of ash. She didn't want to be next, and considering her escape options were limited that meant taking out the enemy.

Time to be a soldier again.

Her keen sense of smell picked something up in a room to her left, and she let herself backtrack three steps, listening for sounds of pursuit while sorting out what her nose was telling her brain. Trusting her instincts, she slammed open the door louder than was strictly necessary, shoulder ramming into the warped metal as she fumbled with the handle.

Petrol. Whatever vehicles this outpost had used, they ran on petrol. And there were half-empty barrels of the stuff left behind in what looked like a mechanical bay, strewn with archaic equipment. Scanning the room to locate the other exits, she unzipped the rucksack with her teeth, fingers of one hand digging through the bag by touch to find her prizes, while she began hauling tires around a barrel with her other arm, stacking them tightly near it.

Jackpot. The smugglers had left her two grenades. Simple, nasty, completely inelegant hand grenades, and they were beautiful. She kissed one then the other, while hooking the electrical tape off of her belt. Pull the pin of grenade one, two loops of sticky, and she popped the opening of the barrel to drop the entire thing, tape and grenade and all, into the petrol.

Then she took off running across the mechanical bay, putting something heavy between herself and the entrance, and began repeating the process, grenade clutched in her hand while she listened.

One Raxacoricophalapatorious. Two Raxacoricophalapatorious. Three. . . She counted in her mind as she fumbled with the tape once again. She found she wasn't breathing heavily. Just as well. It would become a bad idea, soon enough.

Gasoline dissolves adhesive.

Adhesive releases, the tape useless.

Tape loosened, the catch on the grenade frees.

Primed and pinless, the grenade explodes within the confines of the barrel.

Barrel becomes shrapnel, flinging shards of metal at the two nearest robots.

The petrol in the barrel catches fire, adding to the explosive in a fireball.

The fireball catches the rubber tires.

Tires burn with oily, black, smothering smoke that would provide a cover for hours.

She was a little bit brilliant, if she did say so herself. Which she did. Because she was the only one there to celebrate her brilliance. Hugging the floor, she low-crawled to the next bit of cover, sleeve over her mouth, and counted down for the next explosion.

It came sooner than expected, and from the wrong direction. She had a momentary glimpse of black metal veneer, candy-apple red grouped behind it, before the smoke billowed to cover them. Reinforcements.

What _had_ her father done to these things?

Escape was looking less and less likely, as the light beam caught the concrete two feet past her right hand, sending chips of stone towards her. She picked up her pace, hands groping the air in front of her until she grabbed the edge of metal and hauled herself behind cover, ignoring the scrape along her palms. She'd worry about being cut on rusty metal if she lived—she wasn't used to that being an 'if.' She was used to being the cleverest, fastest person in the room at any given time, her survival a given.

She found she didn't particularly like fear.

Hope, though. Hope was an excellent emotion.

It came in the form of a grinding, whirring of alien equipment in the smoke toward the back of the bay. She knew the sound by legend on the planet she'd been generated on, where her father had become myth while she lay dead in his arms. She'd heard it herself, just once, on Starship UK. She'd missed him by less than thirty seconds, too caught up in watching the excitement and bustling and listening to the rumors to know to find him until it was too late. His ship had dematerialized as she bolted towards the sound, gone before she could call out.

Now, though, something was displacing the smoke, sending it roiling blackly in the opposite direction of the explosion for a moment. The motion of it from her viewpoint hugging the ground and the sound of the materialization gave her something to aim towards. Hauling herself to her feet, she didn't hesitate. Hesitation would give them more time, and she had a half dozen robots whereabouts unknown, between her and the ship.

She ran. Arms pistoning, the rucksack abandoned as something that would slow her down, her improvised time-delayed explosive going up behind her, the light beams getting closer to her, she ran for her life.


	3. Chapter 2

Somewhere between protestations about never imagining The Doctor as a deadbeat dad, and perfectly logical commentary about the Doctor being incapable of sharing anything about himself to his companions, Jenny found the energy to roll over on the glass, looking up at the ceiling of the famed time ship for a long moment, situating herself and listening to her father's new ginger travelling companion in idle amusement.

". . . And she doesn't even look like you!"

Ah, a segue. "Technically, he doesn't look like himself, either." Turning her head, Jenny fixes on the completely unfamiliar man crouched nearby, close enough to touch but seeming to hold himself back from it. Tweed. Bow tie. Bandy legged. Floppy hair. "I liked the coat. You couldn't at least keep the coat? It billowed nicely when you ran."

Her father was examining her from a distance, like one might a dog you weren't sure would bite, but she couldn't contain her good mood any more. She'd survived! Again! She loved when she did that. And now she was in the TARDIS. A ship that could travel _time _as well as space. That was just. . . fantastic. Her stolen ships were very limiting in that capacity. Her grin split her face, and then seemed to _split her face_. Oh. She'd forgotten about the nose. No wonder she sounded so odd. "Ow."

Another unfamiliar man took a knee beside her, holding a hand out toward her face, before pausing, looking to her for permission. She ran a measuring look at him—long nose, dirty blonde hair, and something about him just screamed 'nonthreatening.' She smiled again, putting a bit more into it. "Hell_o_. Go ahead."

The ginger woman made a sound somewhere between contempt and a threat. She'd heard cats make that same sound, the one warning you got before the claws came out. As the man leaned over her, fingers gently smoothing over the sides of her nose, feeling for a break, she rolled her eyes upward to look at the other woman, offering her the same grin. "Message received."

"Good." Arms folding across her chest, the ginger haired woman kept her gaze fixed on the Doctor, waiting for explanation.

The Doctor and the other man exchanged completely baffled looks, and Jenny fought to contain her laughter. As one set to determining her physical injuries, the other pulled out a completely unfamiliar device, surreptitiously passing a green light over her figure, before he squinted at it. He seemed to find his voice all at once, and rapidly. "About two years, I take it. No regeneration, so I'm assuming the first time you woke up in the same form. Clearly too much to hope you'd stayed out of trouble since then, but at least you haven't died again. How much do you know about regeneration? How much do you know?"

He didn't give her time to answer, before he bounded to his feet, flicking toggles on the console and pulling levers, mouth still running. "We'll get you back to the medical centre of the ship in a moment. Your nose'll heal quickly. Superior Time Lord genetics, you got that from me. I'm going to make sure we're not being followed. Ah. Yes. Introductions. Amy, Rory, Jenny. Jenny, Amy, Rory." The angles and gangly limbs of this body seemed to make every gesture look like flailing. She was finding this very amusing. Rory-Off-Limits offered her a hand up, and she let herself be pulled to her feet, stretching and taking a moment to eye the battered remains of her olive green top, now peppered with holes from the concrete shards.

"This was my favorite shirt."

"I'm going to hazard a guess that it's also your only shirt, hence the fondness. It's the same shirt, isn't it? You've gone two years and not changed your shirt? . . ." He paused, a rueful expression flitting across his features, and shook his head as he did something to the TARDIS controls that made the whole ship shake. "This must be how Donna felt about my suit. " Clapping his hands, he addressed her again. "Right! Well, we'll soon fix that. Come along, Jenny. Let me introduce you to the TARDIS. Amy, you're gaping like a fish again, might want to look to that. I'll explain a bit more later. I want to get Jenny sorted, get her a room. And then. . ."

She didn't wait to hear what then. Jenny flung herself at her father, hugging him tightly and laughing as he awkwardly patted her back, pulling away to hold him at arm's length. "The TARDIS. This is the _TARDIS_. And a room? Do I get to stay? I know you promised last time, but then I died and it's been so long. Can I really? I crashed my last ship. . . Well, really, I was shot down, I don't want you thinking I just go crashing every ship I touch, you'd never let me learn about the TARDIS then." She was babbling, and she didn't care.

"Jenny."

Catching her lip between her teeth, Jenny tried the guileless look that let her get away with so much, dampened somewhat in effect by the eggplant that had taken the place of her nose. Hands braced on her shoulders, the Doctor looked at her closely, willing her to pay him attention, putting her at ease while conveying the sincerity of his words.

"You smell like petrol and burned rubber and you're bleeding and you sound like a cartoon moose. Let's talk after that's handled. But to answer your most pressing question, of course you can stay. I never meant to leave you."

Hooking her arm through his, she pulled him towards the door, then, scampering down the stairs. "Then I'll let you show me to the medical centre, where you can do whatever tests you probably have wanted to since I was generated, and can poke at my nose. And then I have questions! I looked you up, you know."

Behind them, the young couple looked at each other, Amy mouthing 'generated' questioningly at her husband, and scowling at his shrug. In an unconscious imitation of Doctor and daughter, she hooked her arm around his, hauling him with her as she hurried to catch up, following them down the corridors of the TARDIS.

"Looked him up?"

Jenny clearly didn't need much incentive to keep talking at this point. Nodding, she turned to walk backwards, ignoring the Doctor's looks as she spoke to Amy. "Oh, yes. I rather like reading, I've found, and it's interesting what you can learn. Completely inconsistent, though—never quite sure what to believe, opinions vary wildly from planet to planet. And I've been to quite a few. Never stop running, me. He taught me that. And there's so much to _see_. Of course, sometimes it draws the wrong sort of attention. . ." she shuddered, and he touched her arm as much to let him know he was there as to keep her from walking into a wall as they turned the corner.

"How did you end up being shot at by Daleks. Was that your first time with them?" He couldn't help but let his focus sharpen, as Amy bluntly threw herself into a question he'd have had to work up to. Jenny glanced at him out of the corner of her eye, thumb and pinky catching against each other as she waggled three fingers.

"Third, actually. So they're the Daleks? Wow. No wonder they . . ." He interrupted with a click of his fingers, pointing at the door and then at his companions.

"Right, then. Here we are. Run along Ponds, Time Lord stuff now." He knew that he'd pay for the sharp dismissal once Amy got ahold of him, but he'd deal with that later. Spinning in place, he flattened his back against the closed door of the medical centre, and met the level look of his daughter, noting her raised eyebrow. She'd really picked up far too much from his previous form, particularly given a day's acquaintance. He wondered how much was affectation and how much of it was just _him _transferred in genetics.

Quite suddenly and without warning her mood had shifted. He'd done that, too, through multiple regenerations. Even this one, to an extent. Character trait.

"Time Lords. Planet Gallifrey. Destroyed in the Time War by their soldier, the Doctor. Time Lords are a sum of knowledge, a code, a shared history, a shared suffering. Is that what I am, now, not an echo?"

Ah. Perhaps it wasn't just Amy he had to worry about. He wasn't sure how he'd managed so long with female companions—no idea what to expect from them, really. He felt as if he'd gotten even more inept at it, since regenerating. Not fair, really.

Why did he get the feeling he'd put his foot in his mouth?


	4. Chapter 3

He was retreating, and he knew it. Ambling, really, but everything he did seemed a bit like ambling, it was these legs. He was very fond of these legs. Right, retreat. Rather like running. He didn't do that often from pretty blonde girls. Well. . . alright, there was some precedence there, but that didn't count.

He bounded the length of the medical centre, gathering supplies without looking at her. "Ah. I said that, didn't I?"

"Yep." She popped her Ps! Oh, that was just amusing. It was like looking in a mirror. A slightly outdated mirror. No wait, that didn't work. Like looking at old photographs, and wondering what you'd been on about when you thought something was fashionable. Sticks of celery and question mark umbrellas and that blasted scarf that had to weigh forty pounds, but outdated mannerisms instead. At least she didn't sound like his first form. He didn't think he could handle someone that moody around, a sad commentary since that was _him_. "You did say that."

"I say a lot of things. Particularly when in extreme situations. Particularly in that form. I was rude." Spinning on his heel, antiseptic in hand, he paused, taking in her folded arms and planted feet he froze and resumed the 'is it going to bite' expression. "Rather militant posture, isn't it?"

"No, it's a rather female pose. Amy was doing it, as well. It traditionally, from what I've observed, is the look of someone waiting expectantly." She grinned again-and no, it was very distinctly her own grin not something she'd picked up, he remembered that from the moment of 'Hello, Dad' and loading a gun-and took a seat on the edge of a gurney, relaxing her pose.

Waving a hand and dumping his supplies into a tray as he resumed motion again, the Doctor made a face. "It's the outfit, then, makes everything look militaristic. On Amy that posture just makes her look cross. Of course, a lot of things make Amy look cross. I think Amy makes Amy look cross." Holding up a finger to his lips and looking at his daughter conspiratorially, the Doctor spun full circle and laid his ear against the closed door, shifting to center himself on something unseen, before banging his fist sharply against the door with a resounding hollow thunk, raising his voice to be heard over the sudden protestation from the hall.

"Eavesdropping, Pond!" Turning again, he included her in his cleverness. "Hah. She's fun. Easy mark, but fun. Known her for ages, since she was a little girl. Well, a year. Well, both. Sort of. Long story. Mostly harmless, though, don't let her scare you off. Knew she wouldn't be able to resist trying to figure out what we were talking about, though. What were we talking about? Right. Your nose."

Before she could protest that they'd ever been discussing anything else, he unceremoniously popped a lollipop into her mouth, hooked a rolling stool over with his foot, and settled onto it as if it were an lounge chair as he began dabbing at her nose. "Oh, don't glare. Lollis are completely traditional in healthcare, I've seen it. I know what we were talking about, but I assumed it would be more polite than telling you to shut up, and I'm attempting to build myself up as politer than when last we met. The long and short of it, so I never have to say it again, is that yes sometimes I am a hypocrite, and you knew that already and pointed it out on Messaline. You've probably gotten a lot of interesting accounts as to my character, if you've been reading up on me, and I'm going to ask you to do something for me. Can you do something for me?"

Shifting the lollipop from one side of her mouth to the other, Jenny raised an eyebrow, and simply nodded in response, slowly and solemnly enough to match his sudden shift in tone, and he dropped the sonic screwdriver from its slow passes over her nose to look her in the eyes.

"Trust me. Just. . . trust me." It was a big request, he knew, and he was giving nothing in return. "We're going to have years to discuss these things. Possibly lifetimes, but I can't promise that because I haven't tested it. But I need you to trust me and forget whatever it is you've read for now."

Taking the lolli by the stick, Jenny leaned back, taking her face away from his dabbed medicines and ministrations and fixing a level stare on him, serious and measuring, a look of threat assessment and scrutinizing character study. It would have been disconcerting, were he not used to being the one giving that sort of look. As it was, he had centuries more practice at it. And she was gesturing with candy, which would have undermined it anyway. Rookie mistake, she wasn't to the level of experience where she could do ridiculous things without looking ridiculous. "Before I answer that. . . you said something else, there, on Messaline. You said a lot of things on Messaline, but one that's stuck out given everything I've read."

"Apart from the bit about being an echo?"

Her expression didn't shift, not a smile or a break in the stare. "Yes, apart from that bit. Everything you said, everything you did, you taught me that I could make choices of my own. That I was a person, _truly _capable of independent thought, and that I didn't have to kill simply because I was born knowing how to. You didn't just give the genetic material to produce me, you gave me direction. To strive to be more, to be what I should be. I got out there, helping people and travelling and running, and I read up about you." She didn't seem to need to draw breath to build up steam. He knew where this was going, now, though. Should have seen it immediately. "I went through old Earth history texts on Starship UK. I dug into the archives of Biblios and Kar-Charatt. Went to see the carvings on Crafe Tec Heydra, the museums of Paradost. . ."

". . . And then I remember you, putting yourself in General Cobb's face and telling him to look up genocide in the dictionary."

Yes. He knew where this went. Head bowed, he ran the flat of his palm down his face, closing his eyes. "And that he'd see my picture with a caption that read 'over my dead body.' Jenny, it's . . ."

Shaking her head, ponytail bobbing with the motion, Jenny tossed the lollipop towards the bin and leaned forward again, elbows braced on her knees and voice steady as she interrupted. "No. It's my turn now, father, I let you speak first. I'm not asking you to explain everything to me. And I'm not saying that I won't trust you, or come with you. I knew you for a day and you changed me. From what Donna said, it's what you do for people. You make them want to change. While I was travelling, I decided that you were right about what you said there, no matter what I found out. So I'll trust you, yes. But don't ask me to forget."

Sliding off of the gurney without giving him time to answer, Jenny laid a finger along the side of her nose experimentally, and nodded in satisfaction. "Much better already. You're right. Superior genetics, and good medicine that stuff. Could have used that a time or two back. Can I nick something for my hands? Rusty metal everywhere. Not sure what I cut myself on. You were going to show me to my room, right? I reek of petrol, how did I miss that? Oh! Do the rooms on the TARDIS have baths? Real, proper baths? Never really spent long on any one planet, always travelling, and baths are a waste of water in a ship. Lots of showers, though. Recycled water or that nasty powder that stings every time. Never had a bath before, think I'd like it."

Stopping at the door, Jenny turned again and grinned. There was no malice, or condemnation, and it wasn't put on. She'd simply moved on from bulldozing him conversationally, something that never ever happened except when it did, to the same joy she'd shown when he first told her she could stay.

He didn't understand women.

They still needed to have a chat. Several, in fact. He also likely needed to lay out some sort of ground rules-not that he'd ever had a travelling companion who stuck to them. But for the time being, the uncomfortable conversation was diffused, and he was never one to miss out on an opportunity to escape uncomfortable conversation, even if it was only a delay. Gathering supplies, he sent out a thought to the TARDIS, and watched her head cock to the side as he did, a look of faint confusion crossing her features.

"Two rights down the hall, then the third door on the left will be yours then -the TARDIS will show you to the wardrobe once you're done, and you're welcome to whatever you find there. Tea in the kitchen when you're ready."

"How'll I find the kitchen, then?" She seemed excited by the prospect of exploring on her own, so he was almost sad to give it away.

"Oh, something tells me it won't be hard for you."

She could probably just listen for Amy. Her voice did carry a bit. . .


	5. Chapter 4

Halfway into an upper cabinet, hand on a box of jammy dodgers and tea water whistling in the kettle, Amy finally found him. He knew instantly, because she was uniquely skilled at punching him in the shoulder at just such a time as to make him drop the biscuits, upset a sugar bowl, and jump in surprise in an entirely undignified manner. All because his TARDIS had long since started siding with his companions. Sometime between Rose and Donna, she'd decided she was a girl and therefore a co-conspirator, and stopped telling him simple things like 'your travelling companion is going to slap and/or punch you unexpectedly' or 'I'm only going to show your _female _companions in video records, so you lose a completely pointless argument.'

No. It was worse than all that. He just had a revelation. The TARDIS hadn't just decided she was female and therefore a co-conspirator. . . she'd decided she was _ginger_ and female and a co-conspirator with any companion who'd slap him about. Particularly other gingers. Of which he'd somehow chosen two in a row, both of whom were not sparing with physical abuses. She was also conspiring with River, ginger or not, and River was very. . . River.

Sparing a quick look up at the glowing roundels of his travelling companion of centuries, the Doctor rubbed his shoulder and muttered a sarcastic 'thanks, dear' before spinning to face Amelia Pond.

"Explain." Arms folded, hip leaned against the countertop, Amy watched him with an air of irritated expectation. "How is she your daughter?"

His hands were itching to reach for his scalp, to muss up his hair in frustration. Instead, he tucked them away safely, folding his arms to match her, and let words fill up the awkward moment. "It's a long story. Well, a short story, but a confusing one. There was a . . . thing. I ended up with a daughter I wasn't expecting, she died the same day, and now she's not dead and she's going to be travelling with us."

"You told me you were the last." She ignored his flinch, or he hid it better than he thought. "Who's her mother? How do you know she's your daughter if she died as a baby, the same day she was born? Is this a special Time Lord thing?"

Rory came to the rescue, there, taking a seat at the table behind them and shooting a look that crossed apology with sympathy for the Doctor in the face of his wife's persistence. He could sympathize, he could even pitch in a bit conversationally, but he wasn't planning on inserting himself between the Doctor and Amy, or dragging her away to make her back down. "Amy, she didn't say born. She said generated, and it's only been two years. And she knew him."

"Yes! Very good, Rory, well done. She was generated from my DNA, by a machine that simultaneously aged her to functional adulthood. So, technically, I'm her mother as well as her father. For the sake of not confusing matters, though, let's just keep on with my just being her father . . . which I most clearly am." He might not be a "bloke," but he was most definitely male. He didn't need _that_ coming up to haunt him later.

"So she's some woman who you knew for one day, and she's going to be travelling with us?" A new thought took Amy's mind; he could see thoughts and questions flit across her face, the curiosity and inquisitive nature that made her an excellent travelling companion. If it weren't for the topic, it would have been highly reminiscent of her spiel shortly upon arriving on the TARDIS, how they could breathe in a wooden box and if he felt stupid with a tie. He would have preferred that, commentary on his chin aside. "How'd she die, then? Why didn't you know she was still alive? How's she know how to read, if she was generated and no one taught her?"

Taking a deep breath, more to take the moment to frame his answers than out of need for it (respiratory bypass made rambling responses far easier—likely why he favored them), he was interrupted from the doorway. Jenny clearly didn't mind speaking before she'd gathered her responses.

"It was a memorable one day, for me at least. And I'm mostly him! So I'm not entirely a stranger. And I was shot and dead for a while, he waited. Not that I knew he waited (being dead at the time) but they told me he waited. Coming back to life seems to be a Time Lord thing, though I'm not sure if it worked right on me. And reading was considered necessary knowledge in my generation, so I'd be useful from the moment I stepped out of the machine. I'd be a rubbish soldier if I couldn't read directions or follow a map, wouldn't I? I love the wardrobe. The TARDIS made me an outfit! How does she do that? It fits perfectly, and it's just like my old outfit but with pockets. There weren't pockets in my last pants, it would have looked ridiculous as tight as they are, I had to wear it all on my belt. And the _size _of the pockets. But nothing even shows!"

She was smiling, blonde hair wet from her bath and pulled back into its customary ponytail, and the outfit was nearly identical save the color of her replacement shirt. He suddenly had memories of a regeneration clad in utilitarian black pants and different colored jumpers that refused to wear anything else. Olive green, navy blue. . . likely the TARDIS would follow the same pattern, give her maroon and other muted, dark colors. She was just missing the jacket, but it would look frankly ridiculous on her. Before Amy could interject, he corrected Jenny calmly by adding what he felt was a necessary bit of information to her explanation. Making sure he had Amy's attention, meeting her eyes, he spoke normally to include the other two inhabitants of the room, while conveying something he felt she needed to know to assuage some of her hesitation about the new inhabitant.

"She was shot taking a bullet meant for me, actually. I stayed five hours. Well, five and a half. Always wait five and a half hours, Ponds, it's part of the rules."

"Oh, the rules like 'never interfere with alien cultures?'" Jenny's interrupting snort was amused, as she slipped into the room to look through the cabinets, clearly still listening to the conversation. "And all of the other rules you've given me and then modified, replaced, or otherwise ignored?" Amelia was watching Jenny make her way around the room, and though she clearly still felt the need to continue poking fun at him he saw that his comment had sunk in. Jenny had died to spare him a bullet—Amelia valued loyalty highly enough not to argue her presence on the TARDIS after that. "What's special about five and a half hours? I've waited longer than that."

"Should be easy for you, then!" Clapping his hands, he took the opportunity to redirect conversation gratefully. "Tea. I promised tea. And the pockets are bigger on the inside, cool isn't it? Time Lord technology, the TARDIS must have decided she liked you, she does that for my pockets too. Biscuit?" Jenny had stopped in her prowling, and was sweeping the spilled sugar from the counter towards the sink, though he noticed most of it stuck to the side of her hand. His question came just as she was licking the grains of sugar off of her skin, making her stop almost guiltily, dropping her hand.

It was one of his moments of sudden clarity, of cataloguing everything around him in a simple snapshot of TARDIS life. Amy took the seat next to Rory, bumping her shoulder against his in playful affection. He slipped an arm around her shoulder, pulling her against his side with the sort of casual affection that they'd settled into more comfortably in marriage. Jenny was looking like the proverbial child with her hand caught in the cookie jar, eyeing the biscuits while consuming pure sugar, and considering what she could get away with. Overall, it was a remarkably domestic scene: the married couple and the father and daughter, all gathered in the kitchen. His ninth regeneration would have mocked him incessantly, but he found he didn't mind it as much. It wasn't the first time he'd travelled with family.

"So, where do we want to go? You've never travelled in time, have you, Jenny? Never really." Tossing her the box of biscuits, he grabbed his mug and motioned for her to do the same, taking off out of the door. The attitude was catching, Jenny practically trotted after him, giddy in excitement, and Amy dragged Rory with as they trailed after him.

Maybe he was a_ little_ adverse to obvious domestics, and prone to redirecting situations. But that was the fun of it—sitting in the vortex was meant to be the bits in between.


	6. Chapter 5

The air of the console room thrummed with energy, a telepathic resonance that set his nerve endings singing as he approached the controls, breaking into a canter once he reached the doorway and clapping his hands, rubbing his palms together in excitement. Spinning full circle, he turned to watch Jenny slip into the room, to watch her really take in the TARDIS for the first time since her arrival. She lingered in the doorway to get the full effect, eyes darting from feature to feature as she memorized the layout, a slow grin lighting her features.

Amy quickly lost patience while stuck waiting in the corridor behind her, and pushed her through the door with both hands in a playful shove as Rory shook his head in affectionate disbelief behind her, following behind with his hands in his pockets comfortably. "In you get. No blocking the doorway staring, he'll just stand around grinning like an idiot and waiting for compliments. So where are we off to, Doctor?"

"I think that's up to Jenny, isn't it? First trip! You get to decide where we're going. It's the rules. Well, I say rules, it was always something I meant to institute, other things kept getting in the way. And not a word, Pond, you've gotten to pick most of the places we've gone."

"Except for when I didn't. Or when you missed by centuries or continents. Or when we ended up being chased by aliens. Or being blown up, shot, swallowed by the earth or erased from existence. And we've never made it to Rio." Leaning over conspiratorially as if sharing a shameful secret, Amy completely failed to lower her voice. "I hate to tell you this, but your father is a horrible driver and he's easily distracted."

Jenny's head was canted deeply to the side, eyes heavy lidded, lower lip caught between her teeth as she concentrated on something unseen, but Amy's words pulled her back, gaze darting from the to the Doctor, eyebrow rising and a smirk flitting across her features before she could control it. With a wink to the Doctor, she spun to face Amelia stone-faced.

"Liar." Jenny's return stare was bold in the face of Amy's sudden indignation at being questioned. She let it linger half a moment, maintaining a straight face and judgmental air, before grinning brightly. "You loved to tell me that. It's written all over your face. Gotcha, by the way." She was back in motion again, moving to place her hands on the edge of the control consol, fingers literally twitching as she controlled impulses to press buttons and flick switches, impulses that were wired into her genetic structure, transferred with blood and tissue, impulses that had started with a big red button that should never ever ever be pressed and through almost all previous regenerations. "That's alright, though. More excitement that way! No idea where the wind will take you or what you'll find or where you'll be. Can anyone else hear music?"

Rory and Amy stared at her as if she were mad. Answer enough, there. And it wasn't entirely impossible that she _was _mad. Some insanities were genetic, after all . . .

"Hah! You see, Pond? You're just going about it all wrong. Besides, Rio is boring. Like Sundays." He sidled up to Jenny's side, taking her tea and the biscuit and setting them aside, her hand in his as he slapped it onto one of the levers, before stepping around her to the other side and splaying the fingers over her other hand between the spinular tines of another control. "Like that. Hold her steady for the moment until we decide, she'll drift a bit in the Vortex otherwise. There are supposed to be six pilots for a TARDIS, you know. Just me, now. We'll get you learning right away, see if we can't double the likelihood of ending up where we intend. Though it's possible we'll just double the amount of trouble we get into, but it's a risk we're just going to have to take. No manual, it annoyed me, you're going to have to just feel it. I knew you were listening to her, and no, that's just us and the TARDIS."

"And River. She can pilot it too." Amy piped in, taking her customary position on the jump seat, arms folded across her chest and legs crossed at the knee with one foot bouncing, Rory sitting beside her with his elbows on his knees, leaned forward to watch the Time Lords at the controls. He'd always attempted to convey that Amy was the adventurer and he was trailing in her wake, but it was his observation that was sharper, more interested in the travel—two thousand years in one place, maybe. Or maybe Amy was too fascinated by the domestics. "River's his wife."

He wheeled, pointing an accusatory finger at his companion. "She is by no means my. . . You're just. . . You. . . Oh, shut up. I was attempting to get us on our trip and you're distracting the lesson. And besides, I told you, she's not _piloting_ the TARDIS. She's hitting buttons and mucking with controls. She can't hear it. The TARDIS isn't a car or a plane, she's a living being and a friend of mine, and it's supposed to be a conversation. It's why the manual was rubbish. There's no manual for interactions with sentient females that is even remotely accurate."

"Wish there was. They'd have to make it required reading for blokes everyw. . . ow!" Amy punched Rory in the shoulder with a huff, before folding her arms again, resuming her slouched position on the seat. "Idiot."

"So, this River . . . do I have to call her mum?" Oh, no. Now Jenny was in on it. He wheeled to her, and back just as fast as Amy responded.

"Doesn't that make her your stepmum, though?"

"Oooh, I hear they're evil. Like having an arch nemesis! Never had one before, might be different."

"But he's still your mum, too. Do you have two mothers, then?"

By now he was standing between them, arms almost flailing as he waved them to their separate positions, trying to brush away the conversation and putting himself as a barrier between the two of them. When Jenny looked as if she were going to speak again, he planted a finger over her lips, holding a stilling hand out at Amy to halt her commentary. "No, no, no. Not having this conversation. Rory, I can't reach, silence your wife."

Rory planted a finger over Amy's lips without otherwise stirring himself in his seat, his expression torn between amusement at the Doctor's order, and attempting to emphasize that it was the _Doctor's_ order. Amy was too busy attempting to contain her laughter at eliciting such a response to object immediately.

"Right. Jenny, past or future?" His daughter gestured at her face fluidly, and he stared at her blankly before realizing his still had his finger discouraging her from speaking. "Ah, yes." He dropped his hand, watching her expectantly.

"Past."

"Good! Progress, finally. Preferences on galaxy, star system, planet?"

"Milky Way. Sol. Earth. It didn't exist any more in my time, I want to see what you're so intere. . ." The finger was back on her lips, and she sent him a glare that he answered with his best innocent look. Even with the younger face, he was rubbish at innocent. Hardly seemed fair.

"Direct answers only, thank you! Alright, World War II is out, we've seen enough of that I think. . ."

"And of Rome. I've been Roman long enou. . ."

"Fingers on lips, Roranicus! I can't have the girls thinking it's just them." With a roll of his eyes, Rory began to comply when Amy nipped at his fingertip, a quick snap of her teeth at the finger over her lips to set him back from his task of silencing her with a yelp, immediately launching back into conversation. "Don't be ridiculous. If you're the only one who gets to talk, we'll be here all day and either way we'll end up in the wrong place. Just start piloting already!"

"Fine, fine. No need to bite him, he's not a psychiatrist. Jenny, take a step to your left. . . no, no, keep your hands on both! . . . now, pull back on the lever slowly. . . slower, listen to her, she'll tell you when you're right. . . there. And I spin this here. . . now, push that screen where we can both see it. . ."

The materialization sequence threw them all on the floor in the end after all, no more smooth than it had ever been and quite a bit rougher than River's solo landing. Jenny folded onto the floor in a fit of laughter, Amy clung to Rory to keep herself on the chair, and Rory braced halfway between the floor and the seat, knee planted on the floor and fingers clutching the cushions, as the Doctor clung to the console stubbornly to keep himself more or less upright.

Jenny didn't give him time to check the screens and see where they'd landed before she was back on her feet like they were on springs, bounding toward the door with a speed that spoke of years of running, and with the reckless enthusiasm of seemingly invincible youth.

**A/N: VOTE FOR YOUR NEXT VILLAIN**

No, really! Who do you want to see take a shot at them next? You have the whole of Doctor Who to choose from-do you want the mainstays of the Daleks, the Cybermen, the Sontarens? Do you want a classic baddie that the Doctor's managed to tick off? This is your chance to weigh in on the story if you want, just sound out in comments because domestics are always more fun when there are also explosions and fighting for your life.


	7. Chapter 6

Millennia of space and time to choose from that would constitute the past of Earth for Jenny, a girl born after the planet was reduced to dust and rock swirling around a red sun, and they managed to land in the middle of a war.

To his credit, by the advanced technology of the weaponry it wasn't World War II. He'd deftly managed to avoid that trap again. Considering the circumstances, he was going to take what little success their landing had as a comfort.

The moment Jenny came to a skidding halt just outside the TARDIS, the Doctor so close behind her that her sudden stop sent him careening into her back, they were surrounded by guns. Large guns. Large, rather intimidating guns. He spun, facing the men moving between them and their transport, eyes meeting Amy's through the door of the TARDIS as Rory dragged her back inside forcibly, his arms wrapped around her waist.

At his back, Jenny raised her hands in her air in surrender and waggled her fingers in a wave. Even facing the other direction, pressed back to back with her loose limbed casual stance, he recognized the hip-cocked poise for what it was.

Feminine Wiles. She was a wily one. He wasn't sure how he felt about that, yet, but he _was_ sure he was supposed to be disapproving, and likely to make an issue of it when there weren't guns involved.

"Hello, boys! I love a man in uniform, and there certainly are a lot of you. The door, Dad." It took him a moment to register that she was addressing him, temporarily breaking his concentration.

"Already sorting it." With a spark of will and a snap, hands raised over his head, the Doctor sent his consciousness out at the TARDIS—the doors slammed closed before Amy could break away from her husband, or the inquisitive soldiers could point their weapons inside and go for a look. He could only make out the bang of her fists on the wood over the sharp cocking of manual weapons and the buzz of power readying through blasters. All that over a click of the fingers. "Jumpy, aren't they?"

"Cute, though."

"Identify yourselves." The man barking at them had a lantern jaw shadowed with stubble, a crested helmet pulled low on his brow, and a dusky red sash lined with medals crossed over drab brown fatigues that ended above the knee, legs swathed in leather wrappings beneath. He felt rather than saw Jenny turn her head toward him and turn up the 1000 megawatt smile.

"I'm Jenny and this is the Doctor. Hello!"

He used that opportunity to take in their surroundings, head swiveling, rising up onto his toes to look over the surrounding soldiers at the city around them. Several buildings bore signs of damage, blasts and scorch marks marring old brown stone and polished metal exteriors alike. His mind whirred, taking in the architecture, the uniforms, and the fantastic condition of the road beneath their feet with fresh asphalt to hide what were likely blast craters.

"Romans! You're Romans. No togas, though, so I think Rory would be okay. Well, I suppose those are toga-like, but it's not quite the same. Rory, do you still know Latin or is the TARDIS translating for you, too? Nevermind, don't answer that, we'll talk about it over tea. And stop trying to rush the Romans, Amy, you're a married woman now. Romans from the mighty New Roman Empire— the Third Great and Bountiful _Human_ Empire of any sort, 'Roman' is more a concept than anything else, and what a concept. Mightiest military force in all of time and space." Dropping down from his toes he took in the soldier crowded into his space, he ducked his head down to look him in the eyes below his helmet. "I'd imagined they'd be taller."

It was probably best, for diplomacy's sake, that he was jabbed in the stomach hard with the butt of a gun, doubling him over and leaving him winded.

"Oi!" Jenny's outrage was instant, and behind him he could hear Amy Pond begin rattling the door again. He was glad for that expenditure of concentration that had asked for the cooperation of the TARDIS in keeping them out of it. Mostly, though, his thoughts were momentarily quite straightforward.

"Ow."

The high, insistent wail of sirens split the night, broadcast from up above and all around them, and the Doctor caught the faint chatter of communication from the radio devices of the gathered Romans, their ear pieces apparently built into their ornate helmets. The change in positioning was instantaneous, fluid and impressively well orchestrated without conscious thought from the soldiers themselves. Suddenly the random crowd of Romans were in a formation around them, shoulder to shoulder surrounding their prisoners in a tight square, looking to the skies.

"They're coming." The lantern jawed soldier's hand snapped out, picking soldiers for tasks with the rapid command of someone used to their orders being followed without question. "Confine the prisoners in the base and load their device into the bay for testing. I want an armed guard formation around it, for when their compatriots decide to join us. The rest of you, with me. If they want a war, we'll give it to them."

Jenny had taken a crouching position next to her father, a concerned hand on his arm and a glare fixed on the soldier who'd dealt the blow. He could hear the chatter of her unshielded thoughts now, the low thrumming beat of potential violence, the periodic high notes of anxiousness, and over it all the steady hum of curious energy, more impressions than words in her rapidly whirling mental state.

Rising from his doubled over state, hand pressed to his abdomen, he tuned out his companion and his remaining discomfort and addressed the soldier. "War? What war?"

For long years, the Roman Empire had been at peace. This was an era of innovative artwork, of sweeping architecture and of the sort of rapid scientific advancement that a truly dedicated, single-minded empire could effect when they looked to the stars and employed the era's greatest scientific minds. With the Roman mind for expansion and a nearly frightening precision, they set course for the stars and spread humanity out through the galaxies farther than had ever been accomplished previously and in greater numbers.

It was, in short, a perfect time period to visit. It would be something new and exciting for Amy and Rory, something of their future, a glimpse of humanity's vision and drive. It would have the sweeping historical context for Jenny, incorporate what he knew had to have been imprinted into her memories as a soldier—a great empire, the pinnacle of military precision, and the beauty of peace.

Only now, without the peace.

The Romans were loading the TARDIS onto a flat bedded vehicle, he and Jenny were being cuffed and quick marched towards it, the engine roaring . The lantern jawed senior officer and his men braced their weapons, dropping into tiered ranks—front line kneeling with blasters, the second line bracing larger rifles on their shoulders, a third line behind ready to change places, take the spot of any fallen compatriots and maintain the formation during reloading. Literally dragging his feet, struggling against the vice grip of his guard as he was hauled towards the transport, the Doctor yelled back to him, voice high with concern. "Who are you fighting? Who would fight the Romans at the height of their empire?"

The answer came in a flash of purple light, and the suddenly appearing outline of another group in tight formation, weapons locked onto their location, a gruff voice shouting out what apparently was the tail end of orders. "Rout them! Let the hunt begin!"

"No."

No, no, no. This was wrong. It was _wrong_. It never happened.

Their domed helmets hid their features, opaque as thick oil. Suits of armor like insect exoskeletons made of fitted pieces of overlapping impenetrable alloys. Stout, thick arms, legs like tree trunks. . . for stunted, stubby trees. They looked like children in the face of the Romans, even the Roman Of Questionable Height. Their leader stood beside them, his helmet abandoned to bare a squat, flattened face, an inhuman head without discernable neck, a bald pate rather than hair, beady eyes and protruding ears.

Over the wail of the air raid alarms, he could hear the ships approaching. The war party was backed by an armada, an invasion force coming at them from behind as they were dragged towards the base, and from the direction they were heading he heard the high, thin sound of missiles being launched. The area lit in vibrant relief as the first detonated against the shields of the lead ship.

Officers yelled orders. His guards yelled commands to each other, and he was hauled from his feet and into the ship, a gun to his temple to encourage his cooperation. Jenny was staring fixedly at that gun, fingers of one hand dipping into a pouch at her belt.

And behind them, the Sontarans were closing in.


	8. Chapter 7

When he found himself in the middle of a battle, the Doctor was used to chaos surrounding him. He was sadly familiar with the insanity of war, and thrust into the middle of battle between Sontaran troops and Roman legionnaires, he realized how much he'd begun to count on it.

Because there was none to be found. No convenient slipups, no troops breaking ranks and leaving him free to run. The gun stayed firmly pressed to the side of his skull, he was stripped of his jacket when the pockets became, quite frankly, absurd to continue emptying. They divested him of his sonic screwdriver, slipped a locking mechanism on the outside of the TARDIS to ensure he received no unexpected backup while they were being transported, and cuffed his hands together behind his back and sat him on the hard bench that flanked either side of the transport, staring at his immobilized TARDIS and becoming quite irate when his questions were ignored.

Jenny sat beside him similarly cuffed, watching the field of battle as they moved away from it, until his attention was drawn to it as well.

It was beautifully executed war, and it was nothing like he'd ever seen. Textbooks could be written about this war, the clash between two of the most militaristic cultures in the whole of history. Textbooks that would give numbers, places, dates, tactics, and fail entirely to convey the horror in it. As one soldier fell, another would step up wordlessly to take his place, already firing, while the last line hauled the corpses back out of the way. From the rear as they retreated towards the base, he watched the stacks of dead rise like cordwood, becoming more distant by the second but lit with the gunfire of battle and the dwindling twilight.

Jenny's gaze was fixed on the carnage, her expression carefully blank but her eyes were wet with unshed tears. Leaning slightly, he let his elbow brush against her, using it to strengthen the faint psychic impression he had of her. She caught the light touch of his telepathy, far more attuned than he expected, and swung her gaze to him silently. He could feel her response before she said it, the meaning behind the words and the flat lack of tone.

"This was supposed to be my life." There was no excitement at the sight of the war and it heartened him to sense that, even while the flit of her brief subconscious thoughts concerned him. There was something there, buried deeply enough that he wasn't sure she was even aware of it, and when she leaned her head against his shoulder, he rested his forehead against the top of her head briefly, plucking the thought out to examine it.

She'd lived a few brief hours on Messaline—a life cut tragically short by a gunshot that rang in his mind whenever he stopped to contemplate the deaths that surrounded him. Davros had seen it in his eyes, the pain it caused to consider it, but he'd only ever thought of it from his side of things. He'd failed to consider something else, something that had worked its way into her mind and colored her actions and thoughts from the moment Donna had identified the numbering system, given them the knowledge that generations lasted hours in Messaline and lifetimes of battle had been fought in seven days.

She'd outlived her life expectancy already, by the time she'd stepped in front of the bullet.

He still wasn't certain if she'd properly regenerated, or if the cocktail of atmospheric gasses she'd been present for had brought her back, restored her as it built the planet. He had no idea if she'd ever regenerate. But he knew that with his genetics, her life expectancy was boundless. Provided she didn't die first.

And she had no fear of death. Not for herself. She didn't revel in killing, had no particular desire to die, and had developed a revulsion to wars, but her sense of self-preservation was somewhat skewed in ways the brief touch on her mind couldn't discern for him immediately.

Immersed in her subconscious, he missed what she was consciously doing until he felt the tightness around his wrists fall away, moved his head away from her as she turned a careful look at him. "I'm sorry." There were layers to the apology, and while it was sympathy he saw in her eyes it was action he saw in the tension of her wiry limbs.

_A door once opened can be stepped through both ways._

What had she seen in his mind? He knew what sights like this one did to his memories, what they stirred up for him. He realized they didn't have time to discuss it, however. As the transport entered a concrete and stone tunnel, giving them a brief moment of dark as armored doors sealed to the rear for her to draw her legs through the circle of her confined arms. The short, violent guard had placed himself beside the Doctor as the obvious leader and most threatening (and most offensive), gun at the ready, and the guards had accepted her tears as weakness, their cuffed embrace as comforting the woman of the group.

Jenny clobbered him with his sexism. Or, more accurately, with her joined fists and the metal band of her own cuffs. The Doctor found himself in motion as well, scrabbling away from between them to go for his coat and the sonic screwdriver, and he rose with it in his fist to find Jenny in a stalemate with the other guard, clutching the gun nicked from the first, her poise confident and an earnest expression on her face. "I don't want to hurt you. Your friend is fine, he's just going to have a bit of a headache when he wakes back up—I wouldn't have, except he had a gun on my father and it seemed pretty fair in exchange for his hitting him earlier."

With a jab at the buttons of the screwdriver, the Doctor released the cuffs from Jenny's wrists without approaching and making the tense situation any worse, trying for reasonable in his tones and ending up with tense and pinched instead. "We're on your side. We know you didn't seek this war. We're not hostile and we're not spies. This is my ship, she is my daughter, we're out travelling and we accidentally ended up here." He didn't risk releasing the lock on the door immediately, not and have Amy and Rory blunder in and get Jenny shot.

_Again_.

His thumb brushed over the slide, adjusting settings by touch without looking away from the scene playing out in front of him. He saw emotions flit across the Roman's face. Surprise, anger, and then a steely resolve. Before the soldier's mouth could open or his finger could twitch, the Doctor literally took the decision out of his hands—the blaster flared and popped, shorted out, scorching his hands into dropping the weapon.

Jenny lifted her gun off of him instantly and stepped back.

"Thank you." The Doctor assumed the gratitude was directed at him, but the tone and expression were for the Roman, bright, genial, and back to her wily flirting ways, as if he'd decided to put down the weapon on his own. "Nice trick with the cuffs, yeah? Easier to get them off of you than me, angle's all wrong for the picks with the lock on top."

While Jenny cheerfully directed the soldier to take a seat across from her with flirting smiles, the Doctor glanced at the cuffs, and an eyebrow rising without his approval or conscious decision. He hid it by unlocking the TARDIS, attempting to conceal that he was impressed. "Digital and physical locks, behind the back, at an angle, without alerting the guards, and with no sonic." His ego assured him that he could have done it. Not as easily, not as quickly, and rationally he knew this body was quite a bit less bendy and limber than hers and might not have pulled off bringing the cuffs around, but he could have done.

"I am _very_ impressive. And just a bit clever." She'd inherited his ego. Rassilon help them all. "Plus. . . pockets and pouches. I love pockets and pouches."

Amy launched herself at him in a hug the moment the TARDIS doors opened, and then swiftly jabbed him in the shoulder. Behind her, Rory looked decidedly henpecked, undoubtedly having born the brunt of her frustration for pulling her back inside. "I was afraid I was going to have to watch you die on the screens. You locked us in!"

"Yes I did, Pond. You were my secret backup plan. Thankfully for them, I never had to use it. And thankfully for us, as well, as I hadn't quite worked out all the details yet. But here you are!" He pressed a fingertip to her nose, squashing it in a bit, before he spun to look at Rory. The young nurse was leaning over the unconscious Roman, straightening him on the bench and checking the knot on his temple. Whatever he'd seen he seemed relatively satisfied, for he turned back to the Doctor, hands shoved in his pockets. "How exactly are they Roman? They don't look Roman. Their Latin is horrible. And the Roman Empire has been gone for centuries."

"Oho, a lot longer than that, Rory! Strictly speaking, no they're not Romans. . ."

The alert Roman cut a glance at the Doctor with that, his eyes narrowing and tongue finally loosening. "We are."

"No offense, mate, but you're not. I've seen Romans, more or less. . ." Amy took a seat next to Jenny and upped the ante on flirting as she leaned forward towards him. "And you are not them. You're not even Italian. Do they still have Italy, now?"

The Doctor noticed they weren't moving, that smooth sensation of motion was cutting out, engines rumbling to a halt and echoing in an area much bigger than the tunnels they'd entered. A light flooded the room, making them blink in the sudden illumination, hands shielding their eyes.

"The majority of Ancient Rome wasn't Roman, either, strictly speaking. Their empire was vast, so their subjects were varied. We are the same, only we reached territories our predecessors couldn't dream of. We've touched the stars. We're Roman, all of us, bound by Roman ideals and a Republic that unified cultures and nations across the planet and far outside the boundaries of Italy."

A few yards away from their positions on the back of the flatbed, a man watched them analytically, his shoulders thrown back, chin high and eyes narrowed. There was no doubt he'd been listening somehow, watching night-vision cameras in the vehicle or in the tunnel. Striding forward, an ornate engraved helmet tucked beneath one arm, a weapon across his back and a column of soldiers at the ready behind him, he lowered the ramp of the truck with a bang of his fist on the controls, then stood at the foot of it waiting for them. His voice was smooth and educated, his tone was roughened by command, and his bearing was imposing. "We are Roman."

The soldier next to them rose as if on strings while the speaker addressed them, fist to his chest in a thump, and then his hand stretched out towards the speaker, his eyes on a fixed point without blinking.

"I am Caesar." Booming explosions began down the tunnel, the first signs that the Sontarans had followed after dealing with the smaller force of the Romans who had found him. The start of a siege.

"And you are going to help us eradicate the alien invaders."


	9. Chapter 8

**Author's Note: **So, some people asked for something new. Some people asked for an old enemy. I'm attempting to blend both of them into these chapters while using established bits of the Whoniverse that have never been touched on, and are there for a humble fic writer like me to capitalize on. This chapter's a bit more plot-centered than some of my previous ones, which were almost exclusively character interactions. But, I feel like the best story's always to be found somewhere in between-without the adventure, what's there to banter about?

Enjoy, and leave me a review so I know what you think and what you're looking for!

* * *

For prisoners in an under siege, underground bunker of a militant society, the room to which they found themselves marched into was richly appointed and rather less like a cell and rather more like a sitting room. A pair of guards flanked the door from the outside, another pair of them stood near the tempting assortment of computer screens and controls, and one stood at the Caesar's back as he spoke in clear, commanding, unhurried tones to a small knot of officers that peeled off from the group one by one with a salute to him as they received their orders.

The rich, thick wall hangings softening the corners of the room may have done wonders for making it feel less like living in a cave or a basement, but they did little to hide the deep, thunderous booms of explosives and artillery fire. Jenny watched their effect on each of her companions out of the corner of her eye-eyes that were currently on level with the marble nose of one of the many statues lining the walls. Mercury, poised to run with one winged sandal off of his plinth already.

Amy seemed determined not to flinch, flinging herself down onto the pillows on the floor that made up the sitting area, eyes fixed on the Doctor. With each explosion, the corner of Rory's eye twitched faintly, and he was tense as he took a seat near Amy, reaching out to lace his fingers through hers. The Doctor was a coil of tightly wound energy, rocking back on his heels while the gears ground in his mind, a buzz of frenetic thought somewhere in her peripheral now that somehow reminded her of watching a house dealer shuffle a deck of cards on an Argolin leisure planet. The faint twist of his wrist, the clever slight of hand, the seemingly random reordering of cards that was in truth brilliance and stratagem hidden in the appearance of chaos and chance.

From across the room, the Doctor held up a hand in a shushing motion at her, without looking away from their host's back. "Shut up. You're thinking too loudly." She couldn't help but grin. She got the feeling that was the desired effect, this time-not from the faint, lingering traces of telepathy but out of instinct. "Alright, Pond. You're going to crack your teeth if you keep holding back, so ask your question."

"How exactly are they Roman, again?" The question burst out of Amelia Pond as if it had been compressed, as if it had been waiting to explode from her lips a little too harshly, a little too loudly.

Tweaking the statue's nose with a fingertip irreverently, Jenny spun away from it to look at the next, eyebrow raising at the rather suggestive intertwining of a man who seemed to have forgotten to take off his helmet and shield while otherwise nude and a woman of completely indistinguishable features who didn't even have that much clothing, the woman half swooned over the man's arm free arm, the placard engraved to indicate they were Mars and Ilia. Classical sexist mythical pap. Boring.

She went meandering towards Minerva while the Doctor started babbling. He, meanwhile, was trying to dredge up the explanation he'd worked out in the split second between "outside those doors" and "I _am_ so impressive" when he'd last been here. When, for only a moment, he'd landed the TARDIS in 12005 AD without stepping outside or opening the doors. Before he'd decided he needed more than a new Roman Empire to impress a fierce little human blonde with shining brown eyes who'd just agreed to travel with him, and took her to the destruction of her planet instead.

"The Roman Empire you're thinking of lasted around twelve hundred years, and ended when Rome was sacked, starting the "Dark Ages." That alone should tell you that romanticizing of Romans began the moment they were gone. Humans have been stealing Roman ideas for thousands of years, working them into their politics, their myths, their cultures. Give the planet a few years. . . well, about ten thousand years from your time. . . and the governments are strained by the spread of the human population to other planets, to satellites and massive cruisers, so the Roman Empire was reestablished."

"But they're not really _Roman._" Amelia seemed fixated on that, to the point where she actually blinked as the man calling himself Caesar joined their conversation, falling in beside Jenny to look up at the statue, a move likely designed to keep all of them in his sight, to let him watch all of their reactions far more than out of any particular care about the art itself.

"We're as Roman as the Romans were. The empire stretched across Western Europe, the Mediterranean and into Africa. . . enfolded all of the conquered nationalities into its borders and culture. What lost Rome the first time is what brought it back, the rapid expansion of borders. Governments that cooperated were folded into our republic, others were brought in line, and humanity has benefitted from it." There was something about his smile, something clipped and calculating and political, and it never reached his eyes. Eyes that shifted between them before settling on the Doctor, sharp and intelligent. Without a change in tone, as naturally as if he were discussing the weather, he carried on. "You are all speaking English, though a few of my men who have no knowledge of that language have insisted they're hearing Latin. England is now, as it was then, part of the Empire." He shifted a look at Amelia, a glint of humor in his eyes. "Even Scotland, this time around, and both willingly."

The redhead harrumphed, and crossed her arms over her chest.

"But, given your rather eccentric ship, your unfamiliar translation technology, and both the . . . anachronistic attire" he gestured at the Doctor, who straightened his bowtie reflexively ". . . and some of your party's relative obliviousness of thousands of years history, I'm going to assume that you are no subjects of mine. You also appeared in the midst of a battle with an alien enemy, and yet are far more concerned with the nationality of the humans involved, and therefore I'm going to assume you're not necessarily entirely terrestrial in origin. Displaced in time, displaced in space. It is that second point that makes you of interest to me at this particular juncture."

Jenny resisted the urge to whistle lowly, watching the man beside her warily as she edged towards the larger group, taking a seat. Her distrust was broadcast in her movements, her cautious stare. The psychic paper trick would be useless at providing an excuse, the Doctor was fairly certain. Some minds were too rigid for suggestion, and he had the feeling that the paper would remain stubbornly blank no matter what he attempted to pass them off as. Instead, he stood his ground, meeting the Caesar's look unflinchingly as the other man prowled towards them, watching the appointed leader of his prisoners over the gathered heads of the others.

"I have my doubts that you are part of a secondary invasion force. I will deal with who and what you are later. Now, you will tell me everything you know about the enemy at my gates."

The bunker shook, a vibration rippling through the concrete at the Doctor's feet, making his teeth ache and sending one of the curtain coverings on the concrete walls falling in a cascade, a blood red waterfall of satin. There wasn't time to drag this out, to let his immediate distaste for the man in front of him cost lives.

"They're called the Sontarans. They'll never surrender, they're incapable of it, and they'll all fight to the death. War is sport for them. If they're here. . . and they shouldn't _be _here. . . they're big game hunting. You need to stop lining up in front of them and start attacking from behind, or you're going to be slaughtered." The sonic screwdriver seemed to appear from nowhere in the Doctor's hand, produced from a pocket or from up his sleeve, Jenny was never able to determine. Arm extended, the Doctor ignored that all of the remaining soldiers had their weapons pointed at him instantly, letting the screwdriver whir as he aimed at the viewscreens on the far wall, pacing towards it with little regard for either the Caesar at his back or the guards near the technology.

The others scrambled to their feet as the image on the screen resolved itself into a stout, squat face, communications opened between enemies. "Hello the ship! You seem to be attacking the bunker I've found myself in. It's detracting from my conversation. Would you mind telling me what you're hoping to accomplish?"

"I speak on behalf of planet Earth." Despite the Doctor beating him to the screens, the Caesar's tone was commanding, authoritative, as if he'd initiated the call. "We will continue to react in force so long as your soldiers remain on our soil. The Roman Empire demands your immediate retreat from our territory, and your. . ."

On the screen, one nearly identical Sontaran face exchanged another with a brusque movement, forcing himself into the sight of the camera by pushing the other away. A thin scar marred his face, cutting from one side down through to where his head dissapeared without ceremony below a wider collar, emblazoned with insignia. "I am Commander Skegg of the Third Sontaran Battle Group. I see the coward has chosen to hide like a woman, and refuses to face battle. . . "

Without turning away from the screens, the Doctor flattened his palm behind his back at the two women bristling to respond, asking them to hold off on their commentary.

" . . . And that you have found yourself unlikely allies. I had hoped in my career to test myself against one of the greatest enemies of the Sontarans. It will be an honor to kill you, Doctor-we have no prisons here for you now."

"Right, if you know who I am then you know what I will do to protect this planet. I'm giving you this one chance, one chance to turn back, to get your soldiers onto your ship and to leave. This is not your time or place, and you should never have come here."

"We will fight to the last man to protect our empire." The Caesar interjected, setting the Doctor to grimacing.

"We are counting on it, Human." There was no disguising the Sontaran's tone as anything but excitement fueled by bloodlust. "Your Romans were touted as the finest military force in the universe. The Sontarans intend to prove that a lie, and rout you in the height of your power. And you, Doctor. . . "

The sound of teleportation brought the conversation to a close, gunfire close by, but he heard the closing remark even as Rory and Amy yanked him towards cover.

". . .You, we will deal with once and for all."


	10. Chapter 9

**Author's Note**: The plot thickens. . .

Let me know if you're still reading this, and how you like it! This is probably the most ambitious story I've ever put together, juggling a full cast, unknown settings, a complete plot. I'd like to know what you think, and how I can improve it!

* * *

Gunfire split the air, loud concussive bursts and searing light, flash and bang of Human and Sontaran weaponry making the room feel like it had been consumed by the raw force of a thunderstorm. The Doctor found himself wedged between Amy and Rory, back pressed against the cool marble of a statue's plinth. He was rather thankful for the pretentious artwork as he sheltered at Jupiter's feet.

He would feel better if he weren't looking at his daughter from across the wide expanse of the sitting room where she crouched below Minerva, opposite the now destroyed computer screens. Mythical symmetry, the Oncoming Storm and the daughter that sprung forth from him fully formed and ready for war, but he was unable to appreciate the irony fully. Hands flattening the Caesar to the side of the goddess's plinth, slender arms corded with the effort of keeping the man still and silent, Jenny met her father's look across the room, flinching slightly as incidental gunfire found her hiding place, sending shards of marble flying at her unprotected face like shrapnel, drawing thin lines of blood on her cheek as she stayed silent so as not to give away their position.

The Sontarans had taken the room. He could hear their barked commands over the ringing in his ears as the gunfire trailed off, the stomping boots of the majority breaking off to continue the chase down the halls as the Caesar's guards deliberately drew them away.

"Search for the coward, flush him out of hiding." Ah, that would be him they were looking for, then. There was no cowardice in the Caesar's rage-filled eyes—a bit of indignation, maybe, that he was being effectively constrained by a slip of a girl, but no fear. He wished he could say the same.

"Stay here. Stay down." The Doctor's hissed whisper to Amy and Rory was hushed and hurried, as he communicated silently with Jenny across the room, pointing at himself and then at the center of the room. She shook her head angrily, eyes warning him back, and jerked her chin down to indicate herself, then at the center of the room, her arms too occupied with the ruler to gesture back with her hands. Conceding only slightly, he once again pointed at himself and the center of the room. Then pointed at her, then towards the unseen Sontarans stomping down the center, then balled his hand into a fist and smacked it against the back of his neck.

If they ever failed as travelling adventurers, they could take up mime together, or make an excellent team in Charades. The entire exchange took moments before they reached agreement, working as much off of eye contact as frantic gestures to reach an understanding. He hoped he'd gotten enough explanation across to make it work, thinking at the bundled knot of adrenaline he could sense as her as loudly as he could to try and clarify what he meant, and trusting that as like him she was she'd understand. Nothing for it, though—if they waited longer, they'd be found and lose the element of surprise.

Hands in the air, the Doctor stepped out from behind his hiding place into the center of the room, hands in the air, one still holding the screwdriver. "I assume you're looking for me. Hello, I'm the Doctor."

Two Sontarans, one only paces away from level with their hiding places and one four steps back, flanking him, both with guns aimed at him. He'd only counted on the one being left behind to face the unfortunate task (for a Sontaran) of not being in the thick of the battle. It forced a change of plans.

A few things happened nearly simultaneously, his mind slowing events into comprehensible speed. Jenny slipped around the side of her statue, foot snapping out in a kick at the back of the second Sontaran's neck, sending him toppling in slow motion. The Sontaran directly in front of him tightened his stubby finger on the trigger. The light of the blaster seemed to swallow the Doctor's world for a moment, coming closer, even as his thumb hit the button on the screwdriver that would short the weapon out a moment too late. A weight hit him solidly around his torso, sending a sharp pain into his ribs. And Jupiter tilted off balance, the god of thunder crashing down onto the attacking Sontaran.

For a moment, harsh breathing was the only sound in the room. Amy and Rory were collapsed heavily against each other from the strain of throwing their combined weight into tipping over the heavy statue. The Doctor was flattened beneath the heavy armor and bulk of the Roman emperor, who had quite literally tackled him to the ground. And Jenny stood with the first Sontaran's weapon braced against her shoulder, watching all angles the moment she realized everyone was alive, trying to keep them that way if the loud crash brought any soldiers to investigate.

Staring up at the ceiling from his sprawled position on the concrete floor, the Doctor's voice was raspy and faintly whimsical. "That worked surprisingly well."

"Only because no one listened to you." Jenny's sarcastic remark garnered a snort of laughter from the pile of denim, khaki, ginger hair and weary limbs that was the Ponds, resolving themselves into individuals again as Rory hoisted himself to his feet, offering a hand down to draw his wife up with him. "That's how most of his plans end up working out. The plan is always 'stay put.' The reality is always 'watch each other's backs.' Which it _should_ be."

It was hard to argue with Amy, every once in a while, but he'd take up that argument later when they got back to the TARDIS.

The Caesar rolled himself off of the Doctor without a word of comment on the rescue and to standing with fluidity the Doctor found unfair with gilt armor, eyes scanning the room, leaving the Doctor to his own devices as he took up his own weapon and a position near Jenny. Rory crouched down beside the fallen Sontarans, tensed to recoil, but curious despite himself.

Shambling to his feet with Amy's assistance, the Doctor pressed a hand to his ribs where the metal breastplate of his rescuer had impacted, and shook his head to clear his vision with a groan. "Right. New plan. We. . ."

"Need to get moving. This bunker was built through natural cave formations as much as it was carved out. Come with me." The Caesar's sudden mobilization and floor-eating stride left them scrambling to fall in beside him, a loose formation forming: the Roman leader, the Doctor behind him, Amelia ensconced in the middle, Rory watching her back, and Jenny walking backwards with her stolen weapon leveled, watching for enemies that might flank them.

On the wall nearest Mercury, behind his winged heel, the Caesar shoved the curtain roughly aside with the muzzle of his weapon, entering an uneven hall without breaking stride, his voice bouncing off of the walls oddly—both muted by the closeness of the passage walls and echoing in the dark—as he began speaking. "The tunnels interconnect various parts of the bunker, and they're known only to my highest ranking officers. This bolt hole from the audience hall is the easiest to find—the others are secured."

After stumbling once, the Doctor held his screwdriver up before him like a torch, the green light casting strange, elongated shadows, but shedding enough illumination to keep them from missing the protrusions from the walls in tunnels clearly more or less unsmoothed by human architects. As they reached a fork, the right went off to level out, reinforced with concrete and ending in a heavy electronic door. Even through the reinforced metals, they could hear the war continue outside. The left continued winding, turning so that the faint light couldn't pick out the path without them moving forward. "The right will take you out towards the hangar you entered. The exit, in case of need." Swinging to face them, the Roman lowered his weapon rather than aim it at the Doctor, sharp gaze measuring. "You will not find your ship there, however."

The implication was clear—their ship was in the line of fire, and even if it were not he would hold it hostage by not providing directions, unless they assisted against the aliens. The Doctor's expression clouded with anger, creasing his expressive brow. "We're not here for a war."

". . .But we can't leave you without helping." Jenny's voice interjected from behind him, the voice of reason now—a voice and tone he knew, because he knew it was where he was going to go next, the admission he had to make. "You were right. We're time travelers, from different eras. They may not know about the Roman Empire, but I do. This wasn't meant to happen, they're changing history, and we can't allow it to change too drastically. We're not here for a war. . . but we found one." The last was to her father as he turned to face her, the reflected green light making her eyes seem glassy, adding a spectral quality to their features in the dark, as if he were looking at her ghost.

She held the weapon as if she'd been born with one in her hand. . . because she _had_ been. Whatever their intent had been in landing, she'd made the decision to participate in cleaning up the mess they'd found-and he would be doing her no favors by trying to spare her by running now.

Her gaze swung to the Roman behind him, eyebrow arching slightly, jaw set stubbornly and her loyalties written across her features. "Doesn't make you any less of a prat, though, 'your imperial majesty.'"

"Seconded." Amy piped in from beside her, drawing his attention back to the honeymooning couple, the light picking out the hollows of their faces and casting them in deep shadows. A sense of foreboding settled into the pit of his stomach that he did his best to dispel. "It's a republic not a democracy, Pond."

"Dad, tell us about the Sontarans. How to fight them." Again he blinked at being called 'Dad,' throwing himself past that hesitation with facts.

"Probic vent at the back of their necks-it's how they recharge, it's what connects them as they're cloned. A direct blow to that and they're incapacitated. " Both Jenny and the emperor seemed to jump to a conclusion together about what other attacks to that vent could accomplish. He wasn't sure he liked that. "I've seen that coronic acid reacts with their blood as well, but we don't have that in ready supply."

The entire party recoiled as the sound of yelling filtered through to them from the room they'd left behind, their exit discovered, heavy boots tromping into the passageway. Turning, ready to chivvy them along down the left path, the Doctor saw Jenny deep in thought, staring off at nothing.

"Why?"

He blinked at her, faintly bewildered. "Why what?"

"Why does it react? What's different about their blood?"

"Well, it's green." Rory offered the comment hurriedly, attempting to spur them into action with ridiculousness, but Jenny's turned to him eyes widening as if he'd handed her the answer with his sarcasm. Which, in fact, he had.

"Copper. Copper instead of iron, green instead of red when oxidized by carrying air through their bodies. Copper reacts with coronic acid. Copper." She _had _been asking what he thought she'd been asking. It was going to take getting used to that she thought scientifically, dug for details she could use, cobbling observations together into facts, and from facts into hypotheses again. She was so very much like _him _at that moment that even the ill timed delay could almost be excused.

"They're close. We need to go." There was a force to the emperor's tone, and he wrapped a hand around Jenny's forearm, prepared to drag her as she stood frozen by thought.

"Hangar. Rockets, jets. . . fuel. Early 12,000 AD Earth technology. Liquid propellants. Rocket fuel. Oxidation." She was working out her thoughts out aloud, a finger bouncing from one point to another as she chased the conclusions through her mind, fingers coming up to her temples, fluttering there as if she were physically imposing order on her thoughts. The Doctor reached the final conclusion as she did, shaking his head violently and moving to intercept her.

"Jenny, no."

She yanked free of the Caesar, tugging him off balance and into the Doctor's path and took off down the right hand path at full tilt, her stolen blaster slagging the lock on the door as she threw her weight into shifting it. Behind them, the Sontarans began shouting, the lead soldier shooting blindly down the hall in reaction to the sound of the blaster, and the Doctor found _himself _being pulled along, away from her, away from the battle she was throwing herself into and the enemies on their trail.

He met Jenny's eyes as she forced the door closed behind her again, resolve and apology at war in her expression. He caught the thought she flung at him, the glimpses of other wars and hard decisions she'd plucked out of his mind previously and the pain those choices had caused him.

Pain she was going to try and spare him by taking it on herself.

_My turn, now._


	11. Chapter 10

**Author's Note: **Here comes the science! Okay, plot-wise this is going to be dense, and it's going to take a little bit of scientific explanation. The plus side is, I'm not pulling any of this out of thin air! I'm fairly happy with myself for the fact that each bit of this is based on Doctor Who Science and observations-green-blooded Sontarans and their susceptibility towards acid as shown in the classic series, their cloning vats, their own technology used in the revived series, and _our_ fuels and technologies etc. I'm not going to turn this into a science lesson, but it took a while longer to crank out this chapter because I needed to find a way to make it no less accessible than the series, when it comes to science. Let me know what you think!

* * *

The Doctor was bodily dragged down increasingly narrow passageways, the natural twists, stalactites and uneven terrain working in their favor for the time being—the Sontarans behind them could never quite get a clear shot, their steady march keeping them distant enough that they were falling behind the Doctor and party's uneven, hurried gait over the uneven ground. Yanking his arm free of the Roman Emperor once going back was clearly not an option, the Doctor found his mind an erratic whir of thoughts chasing each other in circles.

"Doctor, what was that? Where is she going?" Rory's voice from the back shook him from his thoughts, made him notice his surroundings once again. Turning his head so he could see his flagging companions, the Doctor cleared his throat, trying and failing to tamper down the fear and anger in his tone. His words were clipped and, for once, spare.

"Nitric acid."

"I'm sorry, what?" Amy now, from directly behind him.

"The technology here is based on liquid propellant—rocket fuel, not petrol, for the Roman Empire's little jaunts into space." The Caesar made an unintelligible sound at the trivializing of his expansionist efforts, but the Doctor barreled over him without pause. "Rocket fuel requires an oxidizing agent for it to burn properly. Typically acidic. Usually, in this era's technology, nitric acid. You're a nurse Rory, you've taken chemistry courses, think back—when they demonstrate exothermic chemical reactions, they introduce copper into a beaker of nitric acid. They love that one, it's dramatic and visual."

There was a moment's silence.

"Still not following." Amy piped in, at the same time as Rory's "My God."

As the passage widened again, Rory fell in beside his wife, pulling her under his arm. Even over the stomping boots and calls between the Sontarans now far behind them, the Doctor could pick out his explanation, but he stayed facing forward, letting his thoughts fall into chaotic planning again and hiding his expression. He wasn't sure what his face would reveal—and he wasn't ready to appear vulnerable.

"Drop a piece of copper into a beaker of nitric acid, and it breaks down on a chemical level and gushes out a poisonous gas, and keeps boiling and transforming until all of the copper is gone. If their blood is copper, and she gets nitric acid on them. . . they're going to dissolve, their blood's going to boil. . ."

"And she's going to die." The Doctor's tone was curt and matter of fact. He stepped forward to walk in front of the Caesar, knowingly avoiding the comforting hand Amy was about to rest on his back. "Where are you leading us? You need to address your soldiers, tell them to begin attacking from behind, going for the probic vents. And _I_ need my ship if my daughter's going to have any chance of living through _your_ war."

Logically he knew that was unfair. They hadn't started the war. They were the non-aggressors in the conflict, but only by chance—they were as likely to resort to this inane war as the Sontarans, and had thrown themselves into it wholeheartedly. Logic be damned, brilliant historical figure or not, the Doctor resented him for it, begrudged him the imminent threat to Jenny's safety.

And he knew in large part, the anger was displaced—that he was infuriated with Jenny for making the decision for him, and at himself for not acting soon enough. He knew, _he __**knew**__,_ after their brief telepathic contact that this was a threat. He just hadn't anticipated it being one so soon. He hadn't foreseen this, and he should have—now, even on the off chance that she lived, she'd have to live with whatever she did.

So would he.

The Roman emperor was speaking, and there was a portion of his mind that was absorbing the information, filing it away, accepting that they were heading towards a secured command post, that he would be in audio-visual contact with each Roman in the field. A more alert portion accepted that the TARDIS was secured in Research and Development on the base, waiting for Roman scientists to try and crack it open and steal his technology.

He was distracted at best, his mind reaching out to try and make connections that had been unfamiliar to him for years with skill that had eroded somewhat with each subsequent regeneration since the Time War. The Time Lords had been a telepathic race—and there was the chance he'd be able to reach her.

_Cold concrete floor of the hangar. Noxious fumes of the acid. Stolen mechanic's gloves too large, muddling her grip. Harsh electrical sound of blaster fire behind her, wordless cry of pain and a heavy collapse. Short Roman was down. Probably dead. No one watching her back now. _

_Fear._

_But not just her own fear. There was feedback, a microphone too close to the speaker, amplifying her own fear with someone else's in a static loop. Father._

_No. I won't let you do this to yourself._

The connection cut sharply, a door slamming in his mind. He could feel it, feel where the connection _would_ be if she allowed it, but he received no further glimpses of her situation.

He sprung back into action as he always had, with kinetic over-energetic motions to hide what he was thinking and feeling, instinctively buzzing the door lock open with his sonic screwdriver as the Roman Emperor brought them to their destination, and taking the lead of their party again, throwing open the hatch and ushering his companions through with a wheeling arm to a room full of control panels, and a scant half dozen senior officers buzzing about issuing orders from the eagle-eye view of the conflict that the security cameras allowed.

He was already speaking, and he wasn't sure it was a conscious decision or not to do so. Behind him, the Roman ruler was electronically bolting the door, securing it against the Sontaran troops that would be following behind them shortly.

"Hello! I'm giving you back your leader, feel free to direct me to my ship. Meanwhile, you need to start attacking them from behind. They have an Achilles Heel, to continue the Roman trend. . . though Achilles was Greek. And I met him, his heels seemed fine, his ego was a bit inflated. Anyway! Weakness. They've a probic vent that. . ."

"In their back of their necks, and it's susceptible to attack. Yes, we know. Your operative briefly hacked into our communications system from the hangar and informed us." Fist thumping his chest, a General extended his hand in a salute that the Caesar brushed aside impatiently, and continued by addressing his ruler. "We've retaken the eastern wing of the compound, sir, but we're losing in the field. They're constantly replenishing their numbers on the ground by teleporting them down from the ships in orbit."

"They're clones! Of course they're constantly replenishing their troops. . ."

The General continued without break, speaking over the Doctor. "Reports from the rest of the Empire are bleak. We've lost several outposts, when conventional weapons failed."

"That would be a cordolane signal. It. . . " Stopping, the Doctor gaped for a moment at the General. Spinning to face Amy and Rory, he threw his arms around both of them, pulling them to opposite sides of him. "Cordolane excites copper!"

"And that's. . . good, yeah?" Amy was giving the Doctor her patented 'you're babbling' expression, head tilted away from him so she could get the perspective to try and read him, while Rory blinked at the change of attitude.

"No, that's terrible." He broke his next words down, the staccato rhythm of emphasis. "But, it's _something we can us_e."

Pulling away from the Ponds and snapping both fingers, he pointed his fingers at the Caesar, animated and insistent. "I'm going to need access to your communication hub, a wavelength transmitter, two of those over-the-ear telephones (I dropped my last one in my tea quite by accident), and your nearest broadcast tower. Or remote access to a communications satellite, _I'm not picky_. Ponds, I need you in the TARDIS. I'm going to walk you through reading off to me the locations of all Sontaran ships. No, better yet, Amy I need you in the TARDIS, Rory I need you to be our Centurion again. Our liaison. Ready to liaise. Mostly, I need you to find Jenny on their security systems for me. Look through the feeds back when she entered the hangar, and see if you can track her movements from there. I need to know when she teleports, or if she has already so I can find out to _where_ she goes-she will teleport, because I would, and if they have the technology she'll get the technology."

As the Ponds broke off, exchanging a brief kiss for luck, the Doctor felt a pang of regret and self-loathing. This was what he did to them, what he did to all of them. He involved them in these conflicts, and he used them. Changed them. The Ponds were accepting his unexplained rambling orders, putting aside questions and arguments in the face of his determination, because it was _him_. And they were his friends.

He took off across the room in a floor eating, bandy-legged gait, sonic screwdriver out, inviting himself to the access panels of the control hub without a further by your leave. Dropping down to lay on the floor beneath the panels, he punctuated his explanation with pulled wires, sparks, and the whir of the sonic screwdriver.

"Technology. Right. They're using a signal to excite the copper casing on your bullets. It expands them, and causes misfires. That's how they killed so many UNIT officers in their early 21st century battle. It's why your blasters are working, but your firearms aren't. I'm betting that the Sontarans developed the technology in their earlier wars against each other and the Rutans. Don't worry, that doesn't have to make sense, just _try to keep up. _It was a weapon then, not a preparatory measure, but their suits are designed to resist the wavelength now."

"Thankfully. . . you have _me_."

"Doctor, I found her!" Rory's voice reached the Doctor from across the command center, and he poked his head out from beneath the controls momentarily to look at the frozen image of his daughter, a canister beneath her arm, a weapon slung across her back, crouched by a fallen Sontaran and clearly removing his teleportation device. He noted the timestamp carefully, while he accepted a communications device, slipping it over his ear and addressing Amy as he slid back beneath the console to work.

"Massive invasion going to destroy human history. Locked in a cave with cranky Romans. Outnumbered a thousand to one. Missing one of our own. I can do it. Pond, toggle the green switch on the right, then the red switch two over, and spin the dial on the screen anticlockwise twice. Rory, I need to see that location on a map of the compound, and get one of the Romans to find teleportation signals that happened at that exact time."

"Save the world, rescue Jenny, and repair an empire. I _can_ do it."


	12. Chapter 11

**Author's Note: **Sorry about the delay, folks! I got distracted by the new season itself (can you blame me?) and as always was afraid that it was going to take the story in a direction that would lead me away from what I was already working on. Fortunately, there's still room for some Jenny/Doctor/Amy/Rory adventuring even after this last season! Hope people are still interested, because I'm getting back to the action. . .

* * *

It wasn't her best landing ever. Teleportation never was. Dispersed molecules hurtling near-instantaneously from a point on the planet that was whirling 'round at just over 1,049 kilometers per hour (a rough estimate based upon their latitude. . . she could adjust for distance from the equator if she had a better idea of their precise geographical position) to rematerialize within a ship in retrograde orbit, one expected some measure of deferred momentum.

Or to put it more succinctly, she stumbled, tripped over herself, and could barely qualify as having remained upright-but she managed not to crack open her cargo or break any more bones. She was taking that as a win, had worked out her justifications, and if there were a judge out there somewhere giving marks for grace they could just remain disappointed in her.

One hand braced against the floor, the other clammy on the grip of her acquired weapon, she remained crouched for a moment in the featureless corridor, muscles tensed to run. Orders called out over intercoms, nearby she could hear the rhythmic thump of boots marching lockstep, the hum of machinery surrounded her like the singing of cicadas, but her eyes, instincts, and her still-sore nose told that her luck was holding.

Checking the straps and webbing she'd acquired to create an impromptu pack of her canisters, she rose to her feet without putting away the weapon, eyes scanning the corridor for her target. Precision was difficult in the jump process. She could have just as easily ended up at the precise origin coordinates of the pack she'd ripped off of a fallen Sontaran in the hangar bay battle, and been surrounded by freshly generated clones. It would have been a rubbish way to engage in a sabotage mission.

Then again, most people might think that of someone closing their eyes, head cocked to the side, standing stock still in the middle of enemy territory. She was _listening_. Narrowing her focus down as best she could to drown out the rest of the sensory input, and focusing on the mechanical sounds, sifting through them selectively. The hum of electrical wiring could be put aside, but she knew now that the third panel to the left on the wall in front of her would give her access to the wires, an access panel emitting a low whine of power. The whoosh of the recirculated air of the ship she noted, ducts to her right and following the corridors-possible secondary assault point.

What she was really interested in was the faint gurgle of piping she could hear in the floors beneath her, all running towards the sound of marching behind her. Opening her eyes, she smiles grimly.

"Gotcha."

Time to run again-right into the midst of the trouble. After all, wasn't that the first lesson of her short life?

* * *

"Right, then. I've about finished. Bit of jiggery pokery, and I've given us a localized stun signal, activate the satellite and we should be able to affect a wide area at a time, sweep across it and disable the Sontarans. It's a low grade frequency, so. . ."

He had been finished with the wavelength modifications of the cordolane signal only moments and was still explaining the effects, when the Doctor found himself at the other end of a blaster, staring into the emotionless eyes of a man who history would put down as ruthlessly effective at maintaining peace-an apparent contradiction in concepts that he found himself understanding more and more.

Considering the Doctor was still laying on the floor, having just slid out from underneath the communications panel, putting his hands in the air seemed rather futile. In fact, he wasn't quite sure what he was supposed to do with them-it was an awkward angle for hostagery.

"Ah. You're pointing a gun at me. And you're threatening Rory, as well. That's new. I thought we had come to the conclusion that we were all on the same side."

There was no sense of shame at having double crossed an ally, no trace of humor in the Caesar's expression, and a thin-lipped condescending smile quirked across his features. "No, Doctor, I determined that you were useful. I've also come to the conclusion that you're unaccustomed to making the sort of decisions you _must_ in order to win a war."

"You clearly don't know the first thing about me." An edge of something dark and forbidding crept into the Doctor's voice, with the weight of hundreds of years behind it. Centuries of wars simultaneously won and lost, hard decisions and terrible losses, betrayal and bitter triumph. He felt Rory's eyes snap to him, felt the tension run through the gathered soldiers, and watched the tightening around the Caesar's eyes, steeling his will and casting the metaphorical die.

"I know more than I've let on, Doctor. I'm ruler of the Roman Empire. I've access to the libraries that catalogue thousands of years of human history, as told by the rulers of nations now under Roman rule. But I also know what I've seen. A man who would allow our enemies to rally and retaliate, rather than deliver the killing blow. What I've seen is a man more concerned with the survival of _one girl_ than an entire empire. " There was steel in the Caesar's voice, and he gestured with a free hand at one of his officers. "Doctor, join your compatriot to the side of the room. Men, watch them. Captain, I want you to link satellite systems to transmit the signal simultaneously throughout our airspace, and boost the signal."

The Doctor's face was devoid of emotion, intelligent green eyes fixed on the Roman as he joined Rory against the wall, hands in the air. He knew what the Caesar was going to say before he issued the order, the echo of the command center amplifying the zealous, ringing tone.

"We're going to wipe them out."

* * *

Twelve minutes, thirty six seconds.

Hands in the air, smile stretching her lips, Jenny paused the mental timer she'd been keeping tabs on since first setting foot on the Sontaran flagship twelve minutes and now forty seconds ago, turning to face her captors, fingers waggling then lacing together atop her head. "Hello! Would you mind pointing me back at the battle? I seem to have gotten a bit turned around and ended up in your cloning bay."

As she's jostled away, another countdown continues.


	13. Chapter 12

Crossing his long, bandied legs at the ankle, his back to the wall and his hands resting laced atop his head as if he were reclining there by choice rather than being held under guard with a gun in his face, the Doctor watched the Caesar stride toward his recently abandoned post in the command station to oversee the modifications.

Beside him, Rory looked as if he were going to go into one of his pre-panic, faintly frantic stammered question and answer sessions. As he opened his mouth, the Doctor tched between his teeth and shook his head, interrupting in a low voice before his companion could start.

"Not yet. We've got it under control, Rory Pond. Trust me. Just wait a tic. There's one thing I need to. . ."

His voice was going to draw the Caesar's attention back his way-but timing was, perhaps for the first time in centuries, working in his favor. The screens lit up, resolving themselves into the squat, flat face of the Sontaran Commander. Pushing off of the wall without pressing the space left to him by the guard in front of him or lowering his hands, the Doctor addressed the Sontaran without waiting for the Caesar to speak. "Aha. And there we go, we're live. Hello up there, how's the weather? I suppose you're about to tell me you've got something of mine."

"Doctor! I intended to defeat you in the field of combat, but it appears you're indisposed! I shall route these Roman upstarts and then . . ."

"I'll do the talking. You've engaged in open hostility toward my government, and are invading Earth Air Sp. . ."

"Yes, yes, I think he knows that, now the adults were speaking and I don't like interru. . . "

The voices were a cacophony, three leaders talking over each other, not a one willing to accept the other's right to finish a complete thought. Somewhere off screen, the Doctor picked up a low sigh, before a shrill whistle cut through all of their words. As the Sontaran turned slightly, the Doctor caught just a glimpse of blonde hair on the video screen, but the voice was distinctive, raised to carry once the din died down.

"Honestly, I have no idea how reality is managing to sustain itself with this much ego in one place. Hello, Dad. Yes, I'm including you. Double crossed? He did look the type. The weather's lovely _right this moment_."

Turning slightly, the Doctor glanced at Rory, flashing him a sudden grin, head tilting towards the screen conspiratorially despite his companion's questioning stare. "And now we have what we came for. Hello, Jenny! Alright, you two, you're welcome to go on with your little war if you want, but I think it's important that you realize that you're overlooking two very, very important things." Animated, suddenly playing to an audience, the Doctor stepped back to put himself against the wall again, widening the space between him and the barrel of the blasters without seeming to be cowed.

"First of all, take a look at this man here." Even Rory looked surprised to be the sudden center of attention, blinking as the Doctor slapped a hand onto his shoulder, pulling him closer to his side. "Rory the Roman. Oldest man in the room, and that's impressive since I'm here. Do you know how he got to be so very, very old? Two thousand years waiting for the same woman. Amelia Pond! Delta Theta Sigma Upsilon, and you're welcome."

His arms down for the first time since being taken hostage, the Doctor reached his hand to his ear, slipping off the requested and granted ear piece, tossing it to his guard as the air began to whip up around them, the heavy groaning sound of the TARDIS materialization bringing every weapon leveled at them, but the Doctor's eyes were fixed on the Caesar alone. "Never overlook the low-tech solution. Thank you for that, it made voice commands to my ship much easier, that I could be patched right in and have Amelia listen in for her cue."

The first round of blaster fire found itself deflected, wind tossing papers about, standing their hair on end, the shimmer of blue paint and bright flashes of the Police Box lantern pulsing in the air, called to him by the emergency protocols. "Second, but most importantly! Never. Ever. Underestimate my girls."

A flurry of motion at the corner of his eye caught his attention, then the feed to the Sontarans cut out in a loud burst of static. Amelia Pond flung herself into her husband's arms as he found himself back within the TARDIS interior, drawn along by the Doctor's grip on him. And the Doctor tipped his fingers to the Caesar in one mocking half-salute in the last moments of visibility, stepping backwards up the ramp towards the controls.

Flicking the speaker phone off rather than pick up the commotion still ringing through the communicator, the Doctor pressed a palm to the rail with a silent thank you to his ship, before finding himself on the receiving end of another Amelia Pond hug-then-shoulder-smack. Folding Amy into a hug in return, he pulled himself away after only a moment, immediately setting to spinning dials, pulling the monitor towards him and fiddling with the feed.

_His girls._ One his friend, transportation and companion of seven hundred years. One the Scottish girl in the English village who trusted him despite himself, and knew how to wait. And the daughter he'd absolutely no intention of losing again, whatever her self-sacrificing intentions.

"And we're off. Hold on tightly, Ponds, and stay inside the TARDIS when we land. We've only got a window of a few moments."

* * *

It started innocuously enough. A quiet click and a hiss, easily missed over the lockstep marching of the Sontarans hauling her away. She didn't need the audible cue. She knew the precise moment the complex cocktail of chemicals and nutrients began its auto-circulation, and brought the contaminated fluids into the vats that fed the entire ship. The mother ship, as it were, in perhaps a more literal way than most. A nursery of constantly replenishing clone armies, soldiers from birth.

She didn't expect to feel as much sympathy for them as she did, as much self-identification. Her stomach turning, she still gave her name like a genial prisoner, and gave her father's name when prompted for her rank, species and status.

Behind her, four canisters of nitric acid began to release into the chemicals, the efficient, clinical systems of the ship routing them beneath the floors to each generation vat.

Two minutes after that, as the Commander Skegg and the Caesar of the New Roman Empire began posturing, a time delay explosion compromised the air ducts. Across the ship, cloning vats began to flash boil. Clone flesh began to melt, ending lives that had never really begun. And copper began to react violently, pouring poison into the air, a cloud that would eventually set off fire suppression systems fed by the same tainted source.

When the transmission cut, Jenny got a split second look at her father behind the Roman Emperor. But it was the Caesar that she watched. He had the look of a man with his finger on the trigger, the look of a man who was holding the right cards.

A man who thought himself a god, surrounded himself with the images of a long-dead mythology to support that claim.

Her programming, years of military training crammed into her head, warred with the ideals she'd honed over two years on her own, two years of looking up to a father she'd barely known, sorting lies from truth. Suddenly, she understood something quite clearly. Something she'd hoped never to experience for herself. She knew precisely the pain her father felt, sharp and insistent, that drove him to apparent 'cowardice.' The Doctor. A man who knew enough about death to understand the value of life. That was the one lesson that men like this Caesar had never learnt, never accepted. The power gave them the right.

What would that make her?

Bracing her feet against the ground, she pulls in vain against the vice-grip hold of the two Sontarans flanking her, her voice raised in warning to be heard over the din, over the clamor of alarms and an unnatural wind. "Commander Skegg! You need to call the retreat. The Doctor gave you the chance, take it, or your men are all dead. Run! You've lost and you don't even know it. _Run!_"

The outburst had cost her, deep lungfuls of poison that clawed through her, left her eyes streaming, her lungs burning. Beside her, the first of her guards fell to his knees, blunt fingers clutching at his face, and the others began as well-their blood boiling within them.

Cordolane signal.

Slumping to the ground and sucking in shallow breaths of clean air, Jenny felt darkness creep into the edges of her vision, blurring her sight. It was faster than she expected, but there was no use trying to hold her breath any longer. Her own plan was going to kill her, and she'd never tell her father. . .

Suddenly, her mind put together pieces. Darkness. The rising wind. She found herself pulled under to the sound of the TARDIS engines. She'd piece it all together better later.

* * *

"Have to time this just right, she told me when it was all going to happen. 'Right this moment,' and she knew there was a time stamp on the screen, clever girl. Now we just have to. . . "

For the second time in a matter of days, the TARDIS doors opened to roiling, dangerous dark clouds outside his doors. This time, though, he didn't retreat, and he only spared a moment for his companions. "Stay put!"

The atmospheric shell parted around him reluctantly, the TARDIS's embrace like a warning. Instantly, his eyes and nose burned, acidic air stung his skin, and he kicked his respiratory bypass into play, drawing out the last clear breath of air as he searched blindly. No. Not blindly.

He could _feel_ her. Casting out with his thoughts, he tripped over other figures without letting himself slow, looking for the resonate connection of her mind, a slowly dimming bulb of consciousness. He almost fell over her, toe of his boot catching her leg, before he followed her arm up to her face, shucking his jacket and wrapping the tweed around her, hauling her back to the TARDIS.

This time, Doctor and Daughter both ended up stretched along the glass, breathing shallow gasps of air. Of her own accord, the TARDIS engines began again, time rotor rising and falling as Amy slammed shut the doors and Rory scrambled to look after two patients.

And outside, two civilizations built around war tore each other apart.


	14. Epilogue

"So what happens now?"

Ah, the question. Every adventure, every time-traipsing incident, every accident averted, they look at him so earnestly and ask. Humans—from the moment they landed, they invested themselves in the outcome and expected him to tell him it all worked out well in the end. His might be the telepathic race, but theirs was the empathetic: even a thirty second commercial could tug at their heartstrings. His companions were always the best of their race, but they saw him as part storyteller, part white knight. There were times he subsided only on the faith they put in him, their expectations, and chose accordingly. There were also times that he had no idea how to shoulder the burden their hero worship placed on him, given everything he'd done. He'd built himself up, particularly for Amy Pond, as the man who fixed things, fixed everything. After all, if he couldn't. . . what was the 'point' of him?

His silence was dragging on too long. Sitting on the stairs, Amy glanced up at her husband, leaning against the railing next to her, and even looking at her askance through the glare on the goggles, he could see the concern in her eyes. Tucking the sonic screwdriver away, he pushed the goggles up to his forehead, and ran the flat of his palm down his chin. "Life goes on."

"Yeah, but what happens to them. You told us that the Romans were the new human empire, that they're why we end up all across space, yeah? Does this change that? Did we win?"

"Win?" His movement set the hammock seat to swinging as he turned to look at her, watching her as she was watching him. "Does anyone really win a war? You survive them. The human race lives on, the Sontarans will clone another batch and set back to the stars to keep fighting. The Caesar will live to an old age, though I'm not certain that's a win for humanity." His answers were concerning her, he could tell. Mentally shaking himself, he swung his seat to reach a cable, screwdriver whirring again, back to high animation with the toes of his boots skimming the floor.

"Cheer up, Ponds! We averted the destruction of the human race again, you like when we do that. The Romans will do as Romans do, no offense to Roranicus, and conquer and spread and make excellent roads (so to speak) across the universe. Eventually, the republic will dissolve, that's the trouble with them and their expansionism, but technology will leap forward rapidly until then, and let's not even discuss the population boom! You humans, marrying and breeding and carrying on. He's not the worst leader you've thrived under, and if it makes you feel any better it's Scotland that breaks first. I told you—never conquered, they just went along for a bit in exchange for a larger role in the republic. Transportation! When they decided they needed a starship, they got it on the cheap and had everything they needed squirreled away already."

Amy's grin was a balm to something he hadn't even known was bothering him, as if in cheering her up he had righted something within himself as well. Pushing himself out of the seat, he made his way to the stairs to chuck her under the chin lightly, nearly bent double to look her in the eyes. "Life goes on, Pond. And it should for you, too."

Glancing up without moving away from Amy, he met Rory's eyes and saw understanding flit across them. For Amelia, the TARDIS had hijacked her life from the moment he'd crashed in her garden. For Rory Williams, Amelia Pond had been the center of his from the moment she'd moved into his little English village. And Amy. . . he'd met his match in running away in little Amelia Pond, who never saw a reason to grow up. She'd postpone marriage, a proper marriage, for as long as she could—it could be the day after their wedding for forever, just as it had been the night before her wedding. In thirty years, he'd have to punt her out of the door back to Leadworth, and the world would wonder just what happened on their honeymoon to age them so dramatically.

There was never a forever. But the Ponds had the closest shot at it he'd ever seen in a human couple.

The conversation went as he expected it would, all three of them pulling up a stair, her leaned back against Rory's knee, her shoulder to the Doctor's as he sat beside her. Amy protested, as he knew she would, not because she failed to see the sense in what they were saying but because she believed that she'd be forever waiting if he left. And, in truth. . . she would. Some part of Amy Pond was still little Amelia, sitting in the garden waiting for her Raggedy Doctor. Rory made his wishes clear in a quiet way, without pushing, stoic and ready to soldier on and wait for Amelia to make her way to him. Anything more and she would have resented his interference. Anything less, and he wouldn't have been Rory.

It fell to the Doctor to convince her. The importance of family... he tried not to let the irony sting.

Upper Leadworth was, unsurprisingly, quiet as a stone when they landed. Amy's hug, folded in the Doctor's arms, was long enough to elicit a cleared throat from her husband. To even matters out, Rory received just as long of a hug, sending Amy into hiccoughing laughter as he tried to figure out how to take that, patting the Doctor on the back awkwardly.

"But this isn't goodbye, is it? Promise. Promise me I'm going to hear from you again, Doctor, or I swear to you I'll chain myself to the TARDIS."

"No handcuffs required, Pond, I promise I'll be in touch! This time, though, don't put things on hold for me-that's missing the point, completely. Live! Settle in. Go out on the town. . . . well, not this town, find a real town for that. . . oh, you know what I mean. Go on, Ponds. Your future awaits." His shooing motion at both of them failed as both dragged their feet, but it was Rory that got the next words in-it seemed something they'd both decided to ask, determined _who_ would ask.

"Is she going to be okay, Doctor? Jenny, I mean. I thought she'd see us off." A soldier he might have been, a Centurion, but Rory was a nurse first and foremost. A caregiver. The trouble was, what ailed the young Time Lady was beyond his ability and outside of his area of study. There was that empathetic strain again. She'd been aboard the TARDIS mere hours before they fell into trouble, but they still cared. He could have hugged them both all over again. He settled for wrapping his arms around both of their shoulders, walking them farther away from the TARDIS.

"We'll go travelling a bit, see if we can't stay out of trouble. It's like she said: Jenny is mostly me. I'll give her a bit of time, she needs it. She'll probably ring you up sometime when she's got things sorted, and in the meantime she'll have me. And _you__two_ have each other, so go on then." Flicking the tassled end of Amy's scarf, he pushed them the last few steps toward the front door of their flat, spinning full circle toward the TARDIS again, then back, pointing at both of them in turn. "Take care of each other. I'll see you around, Ponds."

When he had the TARDIS doors solidly between him and the Ponds, he paused to rest his forehead against it quietly, eyes closed, letting the cheerful demeanor drain away. It was there that he heard the last of the conversation as they waited on the stoop for the TARDIS dematerialization. "You know, I think I'm going to take Jenny's example. There's got to be history books, websites, newspapers and the like. . . Let's look him up."

Trust Amy Pond to find a new way to wait, and sound excited about it.

Shaking his head, the Doctor found the walk to the controls laborious, the uphill climb of the ramp more an exertion than he was accustomed to from his usual floor-eating, bounding stride. Tugging down the lever to start the dematerialization, flinging the TARDIS back into the vortex, he watched the time rotor rise and fall, silent for a moment, before turning to the corridor.

The trouble with his daughter being cut from the same cloth was that he not only knew how she felt, having experienced the same. . . he knew how _he_ dealt with it.

He knew where to find her without asking the TARDIS. Leaning his shoulder against the doorway, arms crossed, one foot resting against the doorjamb, he watched the flurry of frantic energy and blonde hair. He assumed the rucksack was a gift from the TARDIS, considering how much seemed to fit in it without overflowing. He was right about the colors of the shirts, too. Maroon. Navy blue. Drab olive green. It was fitting, he supposed-if there was one regeneration that knew about shouldering the pain of a war singlehandedly it was big-ears, and the TARDIS was perceptive enough to recognize the parallel and outfit accordingly, with modifications for gender.

He'd told the Ponds they'd be travelling together. He'd told them that Jenny'd have the Doctor to see her through. In short, he'd told them a clever lie to get them on with their lives, for their own good. Because in the end it wasn't his choice but hers that mattered.

"There you are! Hope you don't mind, figured none of this would fit you anyway. Can I borrow a few books, too? Your library's amazing, found it on my way back here." Her grin was picture perfect, eyes bright, expression animated. And it wasn't feigned, not entirely. He knew. Just as he knew what this was.

After all, he'd perfected adventuring as a coping method. A daft old man who'd stolen a magic box and run away, who kept running, who never slowed down for fear of having to look at what he'd done. And now his daughter had joined him, inherited that defining characteristic, that fundamental character flaw. They'd had, all told, less than 48 hours in each other's company in her entire short life, and each time she'd come out the worse for it.

She wouldn't blame him. He could blame himself quite well, though. Blame himself for knowing she blamed herself.

Stepping over the strut at the doorway, the Doctor joined his daughter in the wardrobe room, reaching into his inside pocket to fish out his sonic screwdriver from the tweed jacket. Holding his other hand out, palm flat, he gestured at her wrist. "C'mon then. Let me see your watch. Can't have you running off without being able to ring home."

She was watching him perceptively, despite her outward demeanor. Resting her hand on his palm, she gave his hand a squeeze as he whirred the screwdriver over the watch on her wrist. "Stop that. No, no. Not that, keep doing that, I don't mind a good backup plan. Stop. . . " she pressed a fingertip steadily to the middle of his forehead, setting him rocking back, then forward again as she dropped her hand again. "That."

He had the childish urge to say 'you first,' but knew the argument would get him nowhere. Shaking his head slightly, instead he turned her hand over in his palm, and pressed the sonic screwdriver into her grip until her fingers wrapped around it, her eyes questioning. "Take it. I'll have the TARDIS make me another one. Too much to hope you're going to change your mind? We never did get to finish those tests, don't know if you're going to regenerate."

"Well, then, I'll just have to assume I only have the one life and get to it, won't I?" The cheeky grin and inadvertent echoing of his message to the Ponds finally succeeded in making him laugh at the intrinsic irony of the entire situation. Folding her into a hug, he rested his chin atop her head, keeping her there as if he could protect her.

"I don't want protection. And you have nothing to blame yourself for." Telepathic race. He'd had too many years alone in his head, he needed to work on leashing his thoughts again. "I spent a day in your life, Dad, and was ready to kill to end a conflict. I _did_ kill. And don't tell me again about how the Cordolane signal was your work, we both know you didn't pull the trigger on it, and they had to twist it to make it kill. It's not the _knowing_ that's wrong, it's in the _doing_. And I'm getting the feeling I'm always going to _know_." Pulling away, her lips quirked into a more natural smile. "I'm clever, me. Good genes. C'mon, then, let's go. I'll let you pick where you're dropping me, make a go of it."

"Allons-y." His ironic agreement as he was tugged along by the arm towards the control room garnered him a measuring look, as if she were weighing the merits of the catchphrase. The word felt strange on his tongue-this mouth wasn't made for it. This was a mouth made for an entirely different sort of exclamation, for strong emphasis, for dramatic pops of energy.

"Allons-y." For a moment, a completely insignificant moment, he felt as if the world was waiting on something. As if one tiny insignificant phrase could tip a scale. And then she grinned, laughing at him. "No."

You can't extrapolate a relationship from a biological accident, he'd said. Genetically, she was 96.25% identical to him, closer to him biologically than the human-timelord metacrisis that shared his old face and was living out a life he could have had. And yet, she wasn't him. She'd said it herself, though at the time he hadn't listened: Body. Mind. Independent thought. And 3.75% completely unique material, a minor miracle, the little bit of chaos the universe tossed into the mix.

The universe wasn't ready for this girl, yet. But as he looked at her, even knowing the conflict in her mind, he knew _she _was ready for the universe. He'd looked for a Time Lord to share this all with for centuries: but now he knew. . . there was something to be said for watching her run.

He outpaced her for the last stretch of the corridors, lacing his fingers in hers to drag her along and remind her that her father could run with the best of them. Pointing her at the controls he spun a dial randomly, meeting her grin with his own across the console, and threw the lever.

"Geronimo!"

* * *

**Author's Note:** First, I want to thank ALL of you that've read this far. For all your alerts, your astute corrections (Anti-Clockwise! Who knew? Not this Texan.) and your suggestions and contributions and comments. You've made writing this a real joy. Wrapping it this way was something I weighed-having Jenny travel with the Doctor longer or wrapping it up neatly. . . in the end, I wanted to make this tie into current continuity, to make this an encapsulated adventure that doesn't take away from where the story's going in mainstream, but adds to it a bit. I hope you all enjoyed it, and I look forward to another adventure with you all next time!


	15. Prologue 2  Of Wives and Daughters

**_Author's Note_**: Welcome back, everyone! This follows my previous story featuring the Eleventh Doctor, the TARDIS crew, and his daughter Jenny-"Wars of our Fathers." **The rest will be broken off under the title** **Of Wives and Daughters.**

This story, by request, is going to pick up just after Season 6 and be a complete sequel to that piece. A special shout-out to Princess Pinky, Raven-Dragonlady84, and all of the other reviewers on my previous story that encouraged me to keep going. This is for you! Let me know what you think of it, and where you'd like to see our adventure take us this time!

* * *

_The 51st Century. _

"I'm so sorry for your loss."

For a moment, Jenny had absolutely no idea what the librarian was on about. Well, more than a moment. Actually, she glossed over it for an entire four minutes before curiosity had her spinning on her heel on the platform of the rail car and jostling back through the irate crowd of the station, trotting back up the steep steps of The Library with her books stacked high in her arms, pointed chin planted on the top book's cover to keep the stack steady.

"I'm sorry, what was that?"

Behind the counter, the librarian looked up again in confusion upon finding herself distracted from the work she'd long since resumed, and blinked twice on seeing Jenny there again. "Hello, dear. Did you need something else? I thought we were going to get the rest of the books in your next trip. We've tapped out the lending maximum. . ."

Waving a hand dismissively was enough to almost upset the stack in her grip, setting the books to tilting dangerously, so she stopped that gesture as soon as she started, swaying herself to keep the volumes in place. "No, I know, lending limit, due date, barter system doesn't work to loosen the rules, I know. You were very helpful. When I was leaving, though, you said you were sorry for my loss, and I missed it, sorry. What exactly did I lose?"

Embarrassment and sympathy played across her features, and Jenny felt the world begin to tilt in a way that had absolutely nothing to do with the stack of books. This was bad. Very bad. Part of her wanted to snatch the question back, but curiosity had driven her since the day she was generated. She'd done enough running from hard facts, she didn't intend to start plugging her ears to information as well.

"I thought. . . well, I thought you'd heard. I thought that was why you were here. You told me you knew him, and we just updated all of those editions. It's tricky with time travelers, you know, but. . . "

"Just spit it out already, tell me what you're trying to say." She realized how it sounded after it came out of her mouth, rude, abrupt, not at all like her (perhaps a bit like _him_, the other him) but instead of anger she saw something worse in the librarian's eyes. Something well and truly terrifying.

Pity.

Dropping the stack of books onto the floor, she snatched the first one off of the top, flipping immediately to the back pages. Her eyes searched the page frantically, as the librarian's voice quavered. "Well, we've gotten word. . . a time agent sent it along, it was in the news . . . that the Doctor's linear timeline has been terminated. He's been murdered while he was in the past. The research holds true, historical records have substantiated it. I'm sorry. . . "

And there they were. The words, an image of her father as she'd known him last, and a mugshot of his murderer.

_The Doctor_

_Confirmed Date of Death: 22/04/2011, 5:02 PM_

Her feet were taking her towards the wide doors in a sprint before she realized it. Almost as quickly, she spun around again, skidding back to the desk and ignoring the information node's calm, reasoned admonition that for the safety of all of the readers she should refrain from running, sliding, flying, crawling, or otherwise mobilizing (without being speciesist) at such a speed.

"Forgot these. Sorry. I. . . " She had no idea what to say. It was like the rug had just been yanked out from underneath her, but under her mind. Not that her mind was sitting on a rug. . . Her thoughts were incoherent, that was a rubbish analogy. "Thank you. You. . . you've been very helpful." Shuffling all the books back onto the stack untidily, shoving one under her arm, she hesitated a moment, weighing something. "You know, you should think about taking tomorrow off. You look a bit peaked. Get some rest. Or catch a vacation off planet, that'd be. . ."

Swallowing past the lump in her throat, Jenny closed her eyes a moment, trying to impose order on her thoughts. "Just. . . something to consider."

She bolted once again, as she'd always intended to, heeding a vague warning when she stepped out of the TARDIS and into this century: she had books to irradiate, and she needed to be off planet before nightfall.

Darkness was coming to the library. And one hundred years later and four years ago, the Doctor was on his way.

Thirty centuries back or days ago, her father was dead. She needed to see for herself. Needed to call home. . .

Fumbling with her wrist watch upset the books again, so that when the flash of light and wrenching feeling behind her eyes dragged her backwards through time and space they crashed onto the glass floor of the TARDIS spectacularly. 'Able to call home' indeed, he'd rigged her with a recall button without a by-your-leave. He could have used it, could have brought her back to him. . .

The TARDIS interior was silent, the time rotor still and lights dimmed low as it drifted aimlessly through the time vortex. Letting her legs give out beneath her, Jenny sent her thoughts out to the TARDIS, letting it know she hadn't been abandoned, that she wouldn't be left alone to drift.

And a man skidded into the control room, hair tousled, collar undone, sonic screwdriver swinging around as he looked for a threat in response to the noise of her arrival. A familiar man. A very, very familiar man, floppy hair and all.

". . . What?"

"Jenny!" His voice squeaked, and suddenly the sonic was put away and he was desperately trying to straighten his hair and wipe the prominent smudge of lipstick off of the corner of his mouth at the same time.

". . . _What?"_

Behind him, a familiar face appeared in the doorway, looking just like her mugshot. Unaccountably smug at the Doctor's besmirched state, her own naturally unruly curls a riotous mess, entirely unabashed as she flashed Jenny a knowing smile. "Ah, the prodigal daughter. Welcome home."

" . . . _What?"_


End file.
